I took the fastest, most utilitarian shower of my entire life.
Shampoo. Rinse. Conditioner. No time to let it sit. Rinse. Soap. Face. Arms. Neck. The oatmeal. Underarms. Everywhere. Fast. Scrubbing. Like I was trying to get two days of motherhood off my skin in four minutes.
I didn’t linger.
I didn’t close my eyes.
I didn’t let the water run over my face the way I used to before I had kids. Back when a shower was the best part of my day. Back when I’d stand there for twenty minutes just breathing.
I didn’t take a single moment to breathe.
Because the whole time, I was listening.
Over the water. Through the bathroom door. Down the hall.
Listening for crying. For screaming. For a crash. For Brandon’s voice yelling Erin!
My heart was pounding. Some ingrained anxiety. A five-year-old alarm system that never shuts off.
Something’s wrong. Something’s falling apart. They need you. Get out. Get out. Get out.
I heard nothing.
That made it worse.
Silence with four kids is never good. Silence means somebody is eating a battery. Silence means somebody climbed the bookshelf. Silence means somebody is drawing on the walls with permanent marker.
I turned off the water.
I didn’t dry my hair. I barely dried my body. I threw on a clean T-shirt and clean leggings. My skin was still wet. The shirt stuck to my back.
I looked at the clock on the bathroom counter.
7:19.
Nineteen minutes.
I hurried back to the living room.
The kids were exactly where I’d left them.
Theo in the playpen. Sitting up. Holding his stacking cup. No pacifier. I noticed that. I didn’t think about it.
The twins on the rug. On their bibbas. Holding hands. Watching Bluey.
Mabel on the couch. Hugging Clover.
Exactly the same.
Calm. Quiet. Perfect.
But Brandon was sitting rigidly on the couch.
Not in his recliner. On the couch. At the other end from Mabel.
His back was straight. His phone was face-down on the cushion next to him. His AirPods were out.
His jaw was clenched tight.
The anger radiating off him was thick enough to choke on.
“Brandon?” I said. “What’s wrong?”
I was genuinely confused.
He immediately unloaded on me.
“I cannot believe you,” he said. “I cannot believe you would be so selfish.”
I stopped in the doorway.
“I sit down,” he said. “One time. For five minutes. After working all day. And you dump four kids on me and disappear.”
“Brandon, I just took a shower—”
“Twenty minutes,” he said. “You were gone twenty minutes. Do you have any idea what that was like?”
He stood up.
“They were absolute terrors,” he said. “The entire time. Screaming. Climbing all over my legs. Fighting over toys. Theo was throwing things out of the playpen. The twins were pulling each other’s hair. Mabel kept coming over and asking me for stuff.”
I looked at the kids.
Theo with his stacking cup. The twins on their bibbas. Mabel on the couch.
Not one of them looked like they’d been screaming.
“They seem okay now,” I said quietly.
“Now,” Brandon said. “Now they’re okay. Because you’re back. They save it all for me. I had to deal with all of it. By myself.”
“My whole evening is ruined,” he said. “I had one hour. One hour to decompress before bed. And you took it. For a spa break.”
A spa break.
I stood there in the doorway.
My hair dripping on my wet T-shirt. Leggings sticking to my damp legs. Nineteen minutes. Shampoo, conditioner, soap.
A spa break.
And I instantly felt like the worst wife in the world.
I know how that sounds.
I know.
But you have to understand. I’d been up since 5:42 the morning before. I’d slept maybe three hours. I hadn’t eaten anything but two bites of a pancake and the crusts off June’s grilled cheese at lunch.
I was so tired I couldn’t think straight.
And my husband was standing in front of me telling me I was selfish.
And some part of me, the part that was raised by a mother who apologized for everything, believed him.
