Mornings were a battlefield—kids to feed, lunches to pack, and a husband who barely noticed the weight I carried. Suspicion had been creeping in, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer. So, I set up a hidden camera.
I thought I’d catch a lazy babysitter. Instead, I uncovered something far worse. Mornings were always a battlefield.
Eggshells beneath my feet, deadlines in my mind, two boys with endless demands, and a husband who thought parenthood was a part-time gig. I yawned as I shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing my temples, and still feeling the weight of last night’s unfinished chores — dishes drying on the rack, a pile of laundry waiting to be folded, and crumbs from yesterday’s dinner stubbornly clinging to the counter. But I pushed it all aside.
There was breakfast to make, lunchboxes to pack, and coffee to inhale before reality sank its teeth into me. I cracked eggs into a pan, the smell of butter hitting the air, and flipped pancakes with the ease of a woman who had done this a thousand times. Jimmy and Ted wouldn’t eat just anything—I had to get it right.
Pancakes fluffy, cut into little squares, syrup on the side. Behind me, I heard footsteps. Ben entered first, stretching his arms and grabbing the coffee I had just poured—because of course, I made his too.
A second later, Jimmy and Ted shuffled in, still rubbing their sleepy eyes. “Morning, love,” Ben muttered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I barely tilted my head.
“Morning.”
I wasn’t mad. Not exactly. I was just tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix.
Ben settled into his chair, taking a long sip of coffee like a man who didn’t have a single thing to worry about. I placed pancakes on the boys’ plates, watching them dig in immediately. At least someone appreciated my work.
“What time is the babysitter coming?” Ben asked, barely looking up from his phone. I scooped scrambled eggs onto another plate. “Emily?
As usual, at nine.”
Ben frowned, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. “Nine? I told you I needed to leave earlier today.
Who’s gonna watch the kids?”
I sighed, flipping another pancake. “Ben, they’ll be fine for an hour. Emily will come and handle it.”
He scoffed, setting his cup down with an annoying clink.
“Don’t make such a big deal out of it. They can survive an hour without a babysitter.”
Something in me snapped. I turned sharply, spatula still in hand, and looked him dead in the eye.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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