Chapter 2 - The Unraveling
At 8:05 AM, my phone began to vibrate on the passenger seat of my car. I was sitting in the parking lot of a quiet diner halfway to my mother’s house, sipping a hot decaf coffee.
I didn't answer. I simply watched the screen light up.
Derek Calling.
Ten seconds later: Derek Calling.
Then came the text messages, popping up in rapid succession like firecrackers:
Derek: Where are you?? The boys are crying! Derek: Rachel, this isn't funny. Where is my blue tie? And why aren't the babies fed? Derek: Answer your damn phone!
I waited until 8:30 AM before sending a simple text response:
Rachel: I told you. Moms don't get sick days, but employees do. I've taken personal leave. Everything the boys need is on the kitchen counter. Good luck with your workday.
My phone instantly burst into a frenzy of ringing. I declined the call and set the phone to vibrate.
Back at our suburban two-story home, Derek’s morning was devolving into utter chaos.
Having been woken up not by an alarm, but by the escalating double-soprano wails of two starving infants, Derek had stumbled out of bed in his boxers. He had walked into the living room expecting to find me sitting on the couch, expertly juggling both boys with a smile, nursing coffee. Instead, he was met with two red-faced, screaming babies and an empty house.
He ran to the kitchen, saw the sticky note, and crushed it in his fist.
"Is she insane?!" he bellowed to the empty room.
Eli had blown through his diaper, the yellow mess leaking onto his onesie and the playpen sheet. Owen, sensing his brother's distress and overwhelmed by the delay in his morning routine, was shrieking at the top of his lungs, his face turning purple.
Derek grabbed Eli first. He had changed maybe twenty diapers in Eli’s entire five months of life—always with me standing beside him handing him wipes, holding the baby's ankles, and guiding the tabs. Now, alone, with Eli squirming and crying, Derek fumbled with the snaps. He pulled off the dirty onesie improperly, smearing poop up Eli’s chest.
"Dammit! Eli, stop moving!" Derek yelled, his stress levels spiking to maximum.
Eli screamed louder at the harsh tone in his father's voice. Meanwhile, Owen was rolling over in his playpen, kicking his legs, his crying growing so intense he began to choke softly on his own saliva.
Derek panicked. He dropped the dirty diaper on the carpet, left Eli half-naked on the changing mat, and sprinted to grab Owen. He tried to cradle Owen with one arm while frantically reaching for a pre-made bottle with the other. He shoved the bottle into the microwave, completely ignoring the note that said warm water only, do not microwave formula.
Ten seconds later, the bottle was scalding hot. When he tested a drop on his wrist, it burned.
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"Shoot!" he roared, setting the bottle down so hard milk sloshed over the counter.
It was only 9:00 AM. His big golf game was in three hours. He hadn't showered. He hadn't eaten. He was covered in baby spit-up and feces, and both of his sons were screaming as if the world were ending.
