The kitchen smelled of sour milk, cold chamomile tea, and defeat.

It was 7:42 on a Tuesday evening, but inside the four walls of our suburban home, time had long since lost all meaning. Clara was screaming against my left collarbone, her face mottled crimson, tiny fists knotting into the fabric of my milk-stained sweater. In the portable bassinet near the refrigerator, Hazel was working herself into a matching frenzy, her legs kicking in rhythmic desperation.

I stood in the narrow strip between the island and the sink, my calves burning, rocking on the balls of my feet. With my right foot, I mechanically nudged Hazel’s bassinet, keeping the plastic frame swaying just enough to stop her from holding her breath. I hadn’t showered in forty-eight hours. My hair was gathered into a brittle knot at the crown of my head, and my eyes felt like someone had rubbed them with dry sand.

Garrett walked in from the garage, smelling of crisp evening air, expensive cologne, and the quiet luxury of an uninterrupted commute.

He didn’t look at me. He looked at his phone, his thumb flicking across the glass with smooth, casual grace. He set his briefcase on the counter, inches from three dirty bottles and an open tub of infant vitamin drops.

I took a shallow breath, trying to keep my voice even, trying not to sound like the frayed, disintegrating thing I was.

“Garrett,” I whispered, Clara’s wails swallowing half the sound. “Could you wash the bottles? Just the four on the drying rack. Hazel needs to eat in twenty minutes, and I haven’t had a second to sanitize them.”

Garrett stopped. His fingers froze over his screen. He slowly raised his head, letting out a long, theatrical sigh that seemed to suck the remaining oxygen out of the kitchen.

He didn't move toward the sink. Instead, his eyes drifted over the counter, the sink overflowing with cereal bowls, the folded baskets of laundry waiting on the barstools, and finally landed on me.

“There are bottles everywhere, Maya,” he said. His voice wasn’t raised; it was worse. It was flat, patronizing, and weighed down with pure contempt. “The babies are always crying. You’re always stressed. The whole place smells like a daycare dumpster.”

I blinked, stunned. Clara jerked against my chest, her sharp cries piercing right through my eardrums. “Garrett, they’re six months old. They’re teething, Hazel has a cold, and they haven’t slept more than forty-five minutes at a stretch all day. I’ve been alone with them since six this morning.”

“And I’ve been at the firm since seven,” he fired back, folding his arms across his tailored shirt. “Solving real problems. Dealing with clients. I come home to unwind, not to walk into an asylum. I’m tired of coming home to this.”

Something cold settled into the pit of my stomach. “I’m not asking you to remodel the kitchen. I’m asking you to wash four pieces of plastic so our daughters can eat.”

Garrett didn't answer. He shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel, and walked down the hallway toward our master bedroom.

I stood there for three seconds, paralyzed, before Hazel’s cries escalated into high-pitched choking. I leaned down, lifted Hazel with my free arm, and balanced both twenty-pound babies against my chest, their foreheads bumping against my chin. With trembling legs, I walked down the hall after him.

The bedroom door was wide open. Garrett had dragged his large canvas duffel bag from the top of the closet and thrown it open across our duvet. He was pulling moisture-wicking shirts, cargo shorts, and his heavy wool socks from his drawers, tossing them inside with brisk efficiency.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice cracking under the weight of Clara and Hazel.

“Going fishing,” he said without looking up.

“What?”

“The lake cabin. With Todd and Miller. We’re leaving tonight.”

I stared at his back, waiting for the punchline. A hysterical laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. “You’re joking. You have to be joking.”

“I’m not joking,” he said, zipping a side compartment and walking into the bathroom to grab his toiletry kit.

“Garrett, stop!” I pleaded, shifting Hazel higher as she sobbed against my cheek. “You’re leaving me alone with two six-month-olds for four days? I can barely keep my eyes open to drive to the grocery store. I haven’t slept three consecutive hours in six months. I need you here. I need a partner!”

He walked past me, grabbing his heavy fleece jacket off the armchair. He zipped the duffel bag with a sharp, violent pull that echoed through the room like a gunshot.

He turned to face me. He looked down at me—at my greasy hair, my tired eyes, our screaming daughters squirming against my ribs—and he didn't see a wife. He didn't see the woman who had spent three years undergoing painful hormone shots, egg retrievals, and emergency surgery to give him the family he begged for.

He saw an inconvenience.

Garrett hoisted the duffel bag onto his shoulder. His jaw hardened, his lips curling into a dismissive smirk.

“You wanted to be a mother,” he said, each word deliberate and ice-cold. “So act like one.”

He brushed past my shoulder, walked down the stairs, and opened the front door. A second later, the heavy wood slammed shut behind him. The engine of his truck roared to life in the driveway, tires crunching over the gravel, and then there was nothing left outside but silence.

Inside, the babies kept screaming.