Part 2 — “They’re Your Responsibility”
By the time we reached the airport, I was already tired enough to cry.
I pushed the stroller with one hand while carrying Thomas on my hip. A diaper bag hung from my shoulder, and the smaller travel bag kept sliding down my arm.
Eric walked next to me holding coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
“Could you hold Thomas for a minute?” I asked.
He glanced at his coffee.
“I’m drinking this.”
I stared at him.
“And I’m carrying a child, pushing two more, and wearing half our luggage.”
He sighed like I had created an unnecessary problem.
“You always get yourself worked up before things even happen.”
I stopped walking.
“Eric, I literally do not have another hand.”
“That’s why this vacation is good for you. You need to relax.”
There was something almost impressive about the irony.
I looked at him for several seconds.
Then I said, “Okay.”
Eric smiled slightly and kept walking.
He loved when I said okay.
To him, it meant he had won.
At the gate, I pulled up our boarding passes to make sure everything was correct.
Mine said economy.
Talia’s said economy.
Thomas’s said economy.
Tina’s said economy.
Then I checked Eric’s.
Business class.
I frowned.
“There’s a mistake on your ticket.”
He barely looked at it.
“No mistake.”
I stared at him.
“You upgraded?”
“It’s just one flight, Diane.”
“You’re going to sit in business class while I manage three one-year-olds alone?”
“They behave better for you.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“They behave better for me because I spend every day learning what they need.”
His mouth tightened.
“Can we not start this?”
“Start what?”
He lowered his voice as passengers began gathering near the boarding lane.
“I need an actual vacation.”
The words hit me harder than they should have.
“And what do you think I need?”
His answer came immediately.
“You’re their mother.”
I waited.
He continued.
“They’re your responsibility.”
For a moment, every sound around me seemed distant.
Airport announcements.
Rolling suitcases.
People talking.
Children crying.
All of it faded beneath that sentence.
I looked down at the boarding pass.
Then back at my husband.
“You used my savings to buy yourself a business-class ticket?”
“I told you I’m paying you back.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He glanced toward the boarding gate.
Then he said something that made my stomach drop further.
“Just don’t make a big deal about the hotel when we arrive.”
I stared at him.
“What about the hotel?”
Eric shifted his weight.
“I upgraded my room.”
“Your room?”
“It has an oceanfront view.”
My mind struggled to catch up.
“What room are the babies and I staying in?”
“A standard room.”
I actually thought I had misunderstood him.
“You booked us separate rooms?”
“It makes sense.”
“How?”
“I don’t want the kids damaging expensive furniture.”
I couldn’t believe he was saying these things so casually.
“Eric, I’m paying for this vacation.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I could have come without you, you know.”
That sentence changed something in me.
There was no shouting.
No dramatic scene.
No tears.
I simply stopped trying to convince him that he was being selfish.
Because somewhere deep down, I realized that a man who needed his exhausted wife to explain why abandoning her with three babies was wrong wasn’t suffering from a communication problem.
The gate agent called our group.
Eric adjusted his jacket.
“See you after we land.”
Then he walked toward business class.
And left me standing there with our children.
