Six weeks after giving birth, I was begging for a few minutes in the shower when my husband taped a timer to the door and told me I had four minutes before he’d cut the water. When my father-in-law found out, he made sure my husband learned a lesson he’d never forget.
My life had become a loop of feeding, rocking, burping, washing bottles, and trying not to cry when our baby cried for the fourth time in an hour.
Our daughter, Maisie, was beautiful and very much a newborn, which meant sleep came in scraps and peace came in seconds. And while I was learning how to mother on broken rest, Gerald was becoming a man I barely recognized.
Sleep came in scraps and peace came in seconds.
He worked from home, which sounded helpful when I was pregnant. In reality, it meant my husband stayed behind a closed office door while I moved through the house like a robot.
Gerald said the baby distracted him. He said the dishes stacked too loudly. He claimed I walked too hard down the hall. None of it was said with shouting. Somehow, that made it worse.
Then came his obsession with saving money. Gerald questioned every pack of diapers, every extra load of laundry, and every degree on the air conditioner.
One afternoon he stood in the hallway and said, “Ten minutes. That’s enough cool air for the day, Jennie.”
“It’s 90 degrees outside,” I said in disbelief.
Gerald shrugged. “Then sit near a window.”
“It’s 90 degrees outside.”
