I stopped ordering takeout.
I reused freezer bags.
I line-dried clothes.
I bought cheaper groceries and skipped anything unnecessary.
Every time I thought, This is insane, I swallowed the thought and kept going.
Then the shower comments started.
“How long are you going to be in there?”
“Maisie’s crying.”
“You act like the bathroom is a spa.”
The truth was, I already showered quickly. Most days I barely washed my hair. I just wanted five quiet minutes to scrub spit-up off my neck and feel human again.
One morning, while I was rinsing conditioner from my hair, Gerald knocked sharply on the door.
“You need to hurry up,” he said. “I can’t listen to the baby cry.”
I pulled the curtain back slightly. “She’s your daughter too.”
His face hardened immediately.
“I have a low tolerance for constant noise.”
“She’s six weeks old, Gerald.”
“And she starts crying every time you disappear, so stop taking forever.”
I remember standing there with shampoo sliding down my back and realizing something terrible:
My exhaustion meant absolutely nothing to the person who was supposed to love me most.
The next morning, I walked into the bathroom and froze.
A digital timer had been taped directly onto the shower door.
Four minutes.
Gerald stood nearby holding another timer in his hand.
“I’ve got one out here too,” he explained calmly. “If the alarm goes off and you’re still inside, I’m shutting off the water.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline.
“Gerald… that’s not funny.”
