…had sold his pristine white recliner to a local college student for fifty bucks, along with his PlayStation 5 and the expensive custom golf clubs he claimed he needed for “networking.”
“Where the hell is my chair?!” he practically shrieked, his face turning an alarming shade of red as he stared at the empty space in the living room. “And my TV?!”
I didn’t flinch. I was sitting comfortably on the sofa, my healing abdomen supported by pillows, feeding our newborn daughter.
“I sold them,” I replied, my voice dangerously calm. “I also sold your golf clubs. The kid who bought the recliner was thrilled. He said he’s going to eat pizza on it.”
He looked like he was going to pass out. “Are you insane?! Why would you do that?!”
“Because,” I said, carefully burping the baby, “you made it very clear that my major abdominal surgery was an inconvenience to your lifestyle. I realized that if I was going to be healing from a C-section while exclusively caring for a newborn and a grown man who throws tantrums over dinner, I was going to need some extra support.”
I gestured to the kitchen, where a woman in a crisp apron was quietly packing up containers into our fridge.
“Meet Sarah. She’s a postpartum doula and a private chef. The money from your ‘man cave’ covered her services for the next month. She made me a fantastic quinoa bowl for lunch, and tonight, she made me a steak. Medium rare, exactly how I like it.”
He stepped forward, his fists clenched. “You have lost your mind. Cancel her right now and get my stuff back, or I’m leaving.”
That was the moment I finally smiled.
I pointed with my free hand toward the front door, right next to where he had dropped his briefcase. Tucked neatly against the console table were his two large suitcases, packed to the brim.
“I already called your mother,” I told him. “I let her know that since you’re struggling so much with the transition to fatherhood and the lack of home-cooked meals, it would be best if you stayed in your childhood bedroom for a while. She’s making a pot roast for you as we speak.”
He stared at the bags, then at the empty space where his recliner used to be, and finally at me. For the first time in our relationship, he was completely speechless. He didn’t argue. He didn’t yell. He just picked up his briefcase, grabbed his suitcases, and walked out the door.
The click of the lock behind him was the most peaceful sound I’d heard in weeks. Sarah walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Dinner is served, ma’am,” she smiled. “And it’s piping hot.”
