When my husband smugly announced he was going on a tropical vacation without me—because I “don’t work”—I smiled and told him to enjoy himself.
But behind that smile? A storm was quietly brewing.
In Ryan’s eyes, my maternity leave was basically extended relaxation. He saw naps and cuddles. What he didn’t see was the sleepless nights, cracked nipples, the hours spent rocking a colicky baby, or the mental load of managing an entire household.
He was about to learn.
He strutted through the front door like he’d just closed a major deal. Tossed his keys in the bowl by the door, flopped dramatically onto the couch, and completely ignored the fact that I was pacing the living room trying to soothe our crying 12-week-old daughter, Maddie.
“Guess what?” he grinned. “That new beach resort? My parents booked it. I’m going. Next week.”
I blinked, exhausted. I’d eaten half a stale granola bar all day and was running on cold coffee and sheer adrenaline. Maddie had cried for hours.
“Excuse me?” I asked, stunned.
“I need a break,” he sighed, like he was the one covered in spit-up and bodily fluids all day.
“And… what about me?” I asked.
He flashed that condescending smile he saves for when he’s about to say something infuriating. “Come on, Paige. You’re on maternity leave. It’s not like you’re clocking in or juggling meetings. You get to rest when the baby naps.”
His words slapped me across the face harder than any insult.
I gestured to the baby strapped to me. “You think this is resting?”
“I’m not saying it’s easy,” he shrugged, standing to stretch like the conversation was beneath him. “But it’s not the same as real work. I just… need a breather.”
I smiled. Not because I agreed—but because I’d already decided what I was going to do.
The day Ryan left for his so-called well-deserved break, I kissed him on the cheek, handed him his luggage, and waved from the porch with Maddie strapped to my chest. He drove off, music blasting, windows down, living his fantasy.
The second his car turned the corner, I got to work.
Step one: I emptied the fridge. If groceries magically appeared to him, it was time he learned where they came from.
Step two: I paused every automatic payment—utilities, internet, Netflix. Everything.
Step three: Laundry? I handled only my clothes and Maddie’s. His stayed in the hamper, collecting dust.
Step four: I packed the essentials—crib, bottles, diapers, monitor—and loaded Maddie into the car.
On the kitchen counter, I left a note:
“Since I ‘don’t work,’ I figured you could hold down the fort. Maddie and I are taking a vacation. Don’t wait up.”
Then I drove to my sister’s place in the countryside, turned off my phone, and exhaled.
Two days later, I powered it back on. Within seconds, the messages started pouring in.
Ryan:
“Paige?? Where are you??”
“The fridge is EMPTY. I had to eat cereal with water.”
“The internet’s off. I can’t even stream a movie.”
“Where’s Maddie?? You took a vacation?? Without telling me??”
“This place is disgusting. There are no clean clothes. I thought you did the laundry.”
I sipped iced tea on my sister’s porch while Maddie napped in a sunhat. Peaceful. Quiet. Perfect.
The next morning came another text:
“I get it. Okay? I was wrong. Please come home.”
There it was.
I returned two days later.
The house looked like a frat party gone wrong. Dirty dishes piled in the sink. Takeout containers littered the counters. The air reeked of dirty diapers and old tacos. Ryan looked like a broken man—eyes bloodshot, hair wild, wearing the same wrinkled T-shirt from four days ago.
“You’re back,” he said, like he’d just seen Jesus.
I smiled sweetly, stepping over a pile of laundry. “Sure am. Looks like you’ve had a productive week.”
Maddie squealed in recognition and reached for him. He lifted her, kissed her forehead, and hugged her tightly. “I missed you, peanut.”
Then he looked at me.
“I missed you both.”
I crossed my arms. “Did you?”
He nodded solemnly. “I messed up, Paige. About everything.”
I didn’t say a word. Just handed him a folded sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Chore chart,” I said casually. “Since I don’t ‘work,’ I figure we can split the load 50/50 now.”
He opened it and visibly gulped.
Meal prep.
Dishes.
Laundry.
Night feedings.
Diaper runs.
Grocery shopping.
Paying bills.
All of it.
He looked up and said, “It’s fair.”
“Good,” I said, scooping Maddie into my arms. “Because I booked a massage and brunch with the girls on Saturday. Baby duty is yours.”
His jaw dropped. Then he laughed. “Okay. I deserve that.”
I smirked. “You deserve a lot more. But this is a start.”
Months have passed since what we now call “The Vacation Incident.”
Ryan wakes up for night feedings. He folds baby clothes with surgical precision. He even learned where to find diaper rash cream without texting me from the store. We joke about it now… mostly.
But every so often, I catch him staring at the magnet on our fridge where my original note still hangs:
“Don’t wait.”
He doesn’t say I “don’t work” anymore.
Now, he just says, “Thank you.”
And that?
That’s the vacation I needed.