The next morning, the timer was sitting on the kitchen counter, its tape peeled off and its screen dark.
“I took it down,” Gerald told me. “I called someone about the shower valve, too. I shouldn’t have touched it.”
I believed him, but I was still learning not to brace myself for the next bit of coldness.
Robert left two days later after making Gerald repeat the feeding schedule back to him like a student before a test.
At the door, he squeezed my shoulder. “Call me if this nonsense returns.”
“Thank you, Robert,” I said.
He gave his son a look I’ll never forget. “Mean it this time.”
“I shouldn’t have touched it.”
The next morning, I walked into the bathroom and stood under the water without rushing.
No timer. No voice came through the door. No footsteps in the hall. Just steam climbing the mirror and hot water easing days of tension out of my shoulders.
I washed my hair twice. I let the conditioner sit. I stood there long enough to remember I had a body beyond its usefulness to everyone else.
When I came out, Gerald was in the nursery with Maisie asleep against his chest. He looked up and said softly, “Take as long as you need.”
That didn’t fix everything. One sentence never does.
I had a body beyond its usefulness to everyone else.
But my husband got up at night without being asked. He learned the routine. He stopped talking about what he couldn’t stand and started asking what I needed.
And I stopped apologizing for resting, for eating, and for showering like a human being in my own home.
So yes, my husband gave me four minutes and thought that was enough. His father gave him seven days and made sure it wasn’t.
In the end, Gerald learned that love does not hold a stopwatch. And any home that asks you to rush your humanity is a place that needs changing.
