Then six months became a year.
Whenever I asked, he gave me the same answer.
“I’m working on it.”
Eventually, I stopped asking and threw myself into my career.
Meanwhile, my husband stayed home. He cooked sometimes, handled some household chores, and said he was taking care of things while I focused on work.
I told myself it was temporary.
Then, two years after our move, I found out I was pregnant with our first child.
I was thrilled, and so was he. But as my pregnancy progressed, excitement gave way to anxiety. Soon I would be taking maternity leave, and for the first time, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had been supporting our entire household for two years.
I had never resented helping him. What hurt was that we had never agreed for this arrangement to become permanent.
One evening, I finally confronted him.
“I’m going to be on maternity leave soon,” I said. “We’re about to have a baby. I need to know what our plan is.”
He looked at me calmly.
“I’m doing my best.”
“But you haven’t worked in two years.”
“I’ve been taking care of you.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “But I also need you to look for a job.”
His expression changed.
“You’re making me feel like I haven’t done anything.”
“That isn’t what I’m saying.”
The conversation went nowhere. He insisted he would find something, and I wanted to believe him.
A few days later, I came home earlier than expected. His laptop was open on the kitchen table, and his email was on the screen.
I glanced at it.
There were no job applications. No interviews. No messages from recruiters.
Nothing.
Not one sign that he had been looking for work.
Then he walked into the room and immediately saw what I was looking at.
