When Eric told me he wanted a third child, I didn’t laugh, cry, or shout. I just stared at him, hollow, exhausted, wondering how someone could be that clueless.
We’d been married twelve years. I was 32 and already holding our life together with threads frayed from years of doing everything myself. We had Lily, who was ten and growing into her own personality faster than I could keep up, and Brandon, five, who still called for me in the middle of the night if he had a bad dream or a runny nose.
And me? I worked part-time from home, managed the household, ran every errand, cooked, cleaned, handled school meetings, and gave bedtime kisses. Eric? He brought home a paycheck, and then disappeared into the couch with his PlayStation or sports shows.
There were days I couldn’t remember the last time I sat down and just breathed.
But Eric didn’t see any of that. To him, I was just “doing my job.” He thought being a provider meant he was off-duty the minute he walked through the front door. And worst of all? He wasn’t shy about reminding me of it.
One Saturday, I told him I needed an hour to have coffee with my best friend—one hour. The kids were home, perfectly fine, and I thought maybe, just maybe, he could handle parenting for 60 minutes.
“I’m tired,” he said, not even looking up from the TV. “I’ve worked all week. Just take them with you.”
My jaw dropped. “Eric, I haven’t had a moment alone in months. I’m asking for one hour.”
He didn’t flinch. “You’re the mom. Moms don’t get breaks. Mine never needed one, and neither did my sister.”
That sentence snapped something inside me. It was like being told that my exhaustion wasn’t real. That what I did day in and day out didn’t count.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just noted it.
Then came the dinner conversation a few days later. We were sitting around the table, and out of nowhere, Eric said, “We should have another baby.”
I laughed. Out loud. I couldn’t help it. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “Why not? We’ve done it before.”
I dropped my fork. “You mean I’ve done it before. You think I can manage more when you don’t lift a finger with the two we have?”
Eric’s mom and sister were visiting that night. I saw them stiffen at the table. And then Brianna chimed in, as if summoned by tradition. “Eric works hard to provide for this family. You should be grateful.”
Amber added her two cents. “Our mom raised both of us without complaining. Women today are so spoiled.”
I turned to them calmly, but every word I spoke carried years of swallowed resentment.
“Being grateful doesn’t mean accepting neglect. It doesn’t mean working myself into the ground so he can check out. This isn’t 1952, and raising kids is not a one-person job just because I have a uterus.”
They gasped like I’d committed some social crime. But I’d had enough of being talked down to by people who weren’t there when Brandon had a fever at 3 a.m. or when Lily cried because she missed me while I juggled deadlines and laundry.
That night, Eric brought it up again. “I want a third. I’m serious.”
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