At seven months pregnant and exhausted, I asked my husband, Doug, if I could start maternity leave early. His response? He mansplained pregnancy, called me lazy, and said women “power through it” all the time. I didn’t argue—I smiled and plotted.

For a week, I became Superwoman: gourmet dinners, spotless house, all while working full-time. Doug beamed, praising my “new energy.”

Then came Friday.

While I “went to the doctor,” Doug was left home with a parenting coach and my friend’s screaming twins. Cue diapers, spit-up, and meltdown central. When I returned, he looked like he’d fought a war.

I handed him a scrapbook I’d made—photos and lists of everything I do, every single day. He went quiet. Apologized. Humbled.

Then came the real twist.

He called his mom—to apologize for comparing me to her—and learned she had actually stopped working months before her due date. Even his idea of “strength” was based on a lie.

Now? Doug brings me snacks, rubs my feet, and thanks me daily.

Lesson? Sometimes love needs a little shock therapy—in the form of twins, diapers, and a reality check.