I didn’t bring it up the next morning. Or the morning after that.
But the sentence played on repeat in my head for days.
A week later I slid into the kitchen while he was eating cereal and said, as casually as if I were asking about the weather,
“I’ve been thinking… I’m ready to go back to work. The kids are three now. We should probably start looking for a babysitter.”
His spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His whole face lit up like I’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket.
“Seriously? That’s great!”
I smiled over my coffee. “We’ll need someone responsible, experienced… and good-looking, right? You were pretty specific about aesthetics.”
He nearly choked on his cereal, then recovered fast, eyes gleaming.
“Leave it to me. I know exactly what we need.”
For the next several days he was on babysitting sites every free second, sending me profiles of twenty-something yoga teachers and “holistic-play specialists” whose photos looked like they belonged on magazine covers. Every message ended with a winking emoji.
I let him keep digging.
Thursday afternoon I made a couple of quiet phone calls and lined everything up.
That evening I texted him:
Found the perfect one. Coming tomorrow at four. You’re going to love this. Exactly your type.
His reply was instant:
Can’t wait 😊 Only the best for our family.
Friday he came home an hour early, something that hadn’t happened since the twins were born. Walked in wearing the cologne he saves for date nights, hair actually styled, deep-blue shirt that makes his eyes look bluer, jeans that fit. He was trying, hard.
I folded laundry in the living room and pretended not to notice.
The doorbell rang right on time.
I opened it with the calmest smile I’d worn in years.
There stood Wallace…
