I wanted one week where I didn’t have to carry everyone else’s happiness on my shoulders.
When my husband chose to make his own vacation plans, I finally realized I was allowed to make mine too.
The palm trees outside the resort moved gently in the humid Florida breeze as I stood on the balcony watching Mark’s rental car disappear down the driveway. Below, our three children were already splashing in the pool, their laughter rising through the warm air.
A strange sense of calm came over me.
Six years of marriage. Three children. Eight months spent planning this vacation.
And suddenly, I knew I was done waiting for someone else to care whether I enjoyed any of it.
For months, I had stayed up late comparing airfare, saving money, making spreadsheets, and searching for the perfect family resort. I needed somewhere with a kids’ club, a safe beach, and activities that Max, seven, Darlene, five, and Cynthia, three, could all enjoy.
Mark’s only question throughout the entire process had been:
“How much is all this going to cost?”
No excitement.
No suggestions.
No interest in what we might do together.
Only the price.
I kept telling myself he was exhausted. Mark worked hard, and he constantly reminded me that he needed his weekends to “recharge.”
He needed quiet after work.
He needed space whenever the children became loud.
And life with three children was always loud.
So I made sure he got his quiet.
I made sure he got his space.
Nobody ever seemed to wonder whether I needed either.
That was why this vacation mattered so much to me. I wanted one week where the five of us could actually enjoy being together.
The night before our flight, I packed sunscreen, swimsuits, snacks, floaties, medications, and Cynthia’s favorite dinosaur book.
Mark sat on the couch wearing headphones and scrolling through his phone.
“Sarah, did you pack my golf clubs?”
I stopped folding Darlene’s swimsuit.
“Your golf clubs?”
“Yeah. Just in case.”
Of course.
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