When Keith smugly told me he was going to a resort without me because I “don’t work,” I smiled sweetly and let him go. He had no idea what was coming.
Since our daughter Lily was born, I hadn’t slept, eaten hot food, or worn clean clothes. But Keith thought I was on “vacation” because I stayed home.
So when he jetted off for five days of sun and margaritas, I sprang into action. I canceled the auto-payments. Emptied the fridge. Moved all of Lily’s things. Left a note:
“Lily and I are on vacation too. Don’t wait up.”
Then I went to my mom’s.
Two days later, I turned my phone on.
Keith’s texts poured in:
“Where are you? The fridge is empty! They’re cutting the power!”
“I have no clean clothes! PLEASE come back!”
I replied:
“Relax, babe. I don’t work, remember? Figured you wouldn’t mind handling it.”
When I finally returned, the house was chaos.
Keith looked wrecked.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I get it now. Staying home IS work.”
I handed him a chore chart.
“We split everything now. Also, I’ve booked a spa day. You’re on Lily duty.”
Lesson learned.
