When I broke my arm, I thought the hardest part would be caring for my five-month-old twins while I healed. I was wrong. The real pain came from realizing how little my husband understood about what I carried every day, and how far I'd have to go to make him see it.
"Hope?"
I didn't answer right away.
Derek stood in the doorway of my mom's living room, staring at Luke in her arms, Miles in mine, and the diaper bag I'd packed for more than one night.
His face changed.
"Hope?"
"Why are the boys staying here?"
I looked at him.
"Because my arm is broken, Derek."
"I know that."
"Apparently you don't. You don't even understand that I need help."
"Why are the boys staying here?"
His eyes moved to the folded sheet of paper on the coffee table. It was the schedule he'd refused to follow the night before.
Then he looked back at me.
"You took my kids and left?"
