Chapter 1 - The Dinosaur Sock
Three nights before my husband surprised me with a trip to Florida, I sat on the laundry room floor and cried over a missing dinosaur sock.
Not because of the sock.
Obviously.
It was one tiny blue sock with a green stegosaurus stitched near the ankle. Owen had dozens of socks. Most of them didn't match anyway.
But that night, somehow, that ridiculous little sock became the final thing my exhausted brain could handle.
I sat between a basket of clean towels and two piles of clothes that had been washed but never folded, holding the matching dinosaur sock in my hand as if its missing partner represented every unfinished task in my life.
Lucy had been teething for six straight days.
At ten months old, our daughter had recently decided that sleeping was an activity meant for weaker babies. She had slept more than three consecutive hours exactly once that week.
I hadn't even used those miraculous three hours to sleep.
I'd answered emails.
I worked part-time from home for an event-planning company, which sounded flexible and convenient when I explained it to other people.
In reality, it meant I handled client emails while warming bottles, reviewed vendor contracts while sitting outside Owen's kindergarten classroom, and joined video meetings with one earbud while folding laundry.
Owen needed a cardboard solar system for school by Friday.
Mars was somewhere underneath our couch.
Saturn's rings were still an uncut piece of construction paper.
The dishwasher had begun making a grinding noise that sounded like a lawn mower swallowing forks.
We were almost out of diapers.
I had forgotten to reorder Lucy's vitamin drops.
Owen had a birthday party next Saturday, and I hadn't bought the birthday boy a gift.
And sometime around 8:40 that evening, as I sat staring at the dinosaur sock, I realized I hadn't eaten dinner.
That was when Colin found me.
He stopped in the laundry room doorway.
“Mal?”
I quickly wiped my cheeks.
“I'm fine.”
Colin leaned against the doorframe and studied me.
I hated that look because it meant he didn't believe me.
And somewhere underneath the exhaustion, I hated myself because I desperately wanted him not to believe me.
I wanted him to see me without making me explain myself.
“I’m just tired,” I said.
Colin frowned.
“You’re always tired.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Before I could answer, crying crackled through the baby monitor sitting on top of the dryer.
Lucy.
I closed my eyes.
Every muscle in my body seemed to tense automatically.
Colin grabbed the monitor.
“I’ve got her.”
For some reason, I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because he said it like he was removing one item from a temporary checklist rather than stepping into the never-ending mental load I carried every day.
He disappeared upstairs.
I remained sitting on the floor.
For ten whole minutes.
It felt luxurious.
Then Colin returned with Lucy against his shoulder.
Her cheeks were pink from crying, and the second she saw me, she stretched both hands toward me.
“See?” Colin said with an affectionate little smile. “She wants Mom.”
He handed her over.
Of course she wanted Mom.
Mom knew which song made her stop crying.
Mom knew she preferred the silicone teether after midnight but the cold washcloth before naps.
Mom knew her diaper cream was almost empty.
Mom knew she'd refused carrots at lunch but eaten half a banana.
Mom knew she'd been rubbing her left ear occasionally and had already made a mental note to call the pediatrician if it continued tomorrow.
Colin didn't know those things.
Not because he was cruel.
That almost made it harder.
Colin wasn't the kind of husband people immediately labeled bad.
He didn't disappear every weekend.
He changed diapers.
He made pancakes on Sunday mornings.
When he got home before seven, he usually handled bath time.
He could make Owen laugh so hard that milk came out of his nose.
He loved our children.
And whenever I directly asked Colin to do something, he usually did it.
That was precisely the problem.
I always had to ask.
I had to notice.
I had to remember.
I had to assign.
I had to know that the preschool fundraiser form was due Thursday.
I had to realize Owen's sneakers were becoming too small.
I had to remember we needed gifts for two birthday parties next month.
I had to know Lucy's pediatrician wanted us to change her vitamin drops.
I had to watch the calendar, the pantry, the laundry, the children's clothing sizes, our prescriptions, school notices, grocery lists and family obligations.
Then Colin could “help.”
He genuinely believed that made things equal.
That night, after I finally got Lucy back to sleep, Colin found me standing in the kitchen eating peanut butter from a spoon.
“You should go to bed,” he said.
“I need to finish Owen's planets.”
“I'll help tomorrow.”
I looked at him.
“Do you know which planets still need to be done?”
He hesitated.
I smiled without humor.
“Exactly.”
He sighed.
“Mal, I don't know what you want me to say.”
And that was the problem too.
I didn't know anymore.
I didn't want an apology.
I wanted a partner who saw the work before I turned it into instructions.
But explaining that required energy I no longer had.
So I said the thing exhausted women say when they're too tired to explain why they're exhausted.
“Nothing.”
Two days later, Colin came home smiling.
I was standing at the kitchen island, cutting strawberries into baby-sized pieces.
He set his keys on the counter.
“Pack a swimsuit.”
I kept cutting.
“What?”
“And something nice for dinner.”
I looked up.
“Colin.”
His smile grew.
“Five days. Florida.”
The knife stopped in my hand.
“What are you talking about?”
“I booked us a trip.”
I stared at him.
He spread his arms dramatically.
“You need a break.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
I searched his expression for the joke.
There wasn't one.
“No work?”
“No work.”
“No cooking?”
“No cooking.”
“No laundry?”
He laughed.
“Absolutely no laundry.”
I almost smiled.
“What about Owen's school?”
“I already talked to his teacher.”
That surprised me more than Florida.
“You did?”
“Yep.”
“And the dog?”
“Boarded.”
“Really?”
“Already handled.”
I slowly put the knife down.
Something inside my chest loosened.
Not because of the beach.
Not because of Florida.
Not because of the resort pictures Colin showed me on his phone.
Because he had handled something.
He had noticed.
He had made arrangements.
Without me creating a spreadsheet.
Without me calling anyone.
Without three reminders.
Without me packing the responsibility and handing it to him with instructions.
“You planned all this?” I asked.
“I did.”
I walked around the island and hugged him.
For the first time in months, I felt something I had almost forgotten.
Seen.
“I can't believe you did this.”
Colin kissed my forehead.
“You deserve it.”
I almost cried again.
But this time they were relieved tears.
That night, I packed lightly.
Swimsuits.
Sundresses.
Two outfits for each child.
Enough diapers for the flight.
Sun hats.
Sunscreen.
Owen's favorite stuffed dinosaur.
I even packed a paperback novel I'd bought eight months earlier and never opened.
I imagined reading beside the pool while Colin played with the children.
I imagined breakfast I didn't cook.
Towels I didn't wash.
Beds I didn't make.
Maybe we'd order drinks after the kids fell asleep.
Maybe Colin and I would remember who we'd been before every conversation became about schedules, groceries and nap times.
On the morning of the flight, Colin loaded the luggage while I buckled Lucy into her carrier.
“Ready for your break?” he asked.
I smiled.
“More than you know.”
The drive to the airport felt strangely peaceful.
Owen watched cartoons in the back seat.
Lucy slept.
Colin hummed along with the radio.
I watched the highway signs and allowed myself to believe that somewhere ahead of us were five days during which nobody needed me to manage everything.
Then we turned toward departures.
Colin slowed the car.
And I saw someone waving from the curb.
At first, I thought she was waving at another vehicle.
Then I recognized the bright scarf.
Janice.
My mother-in-law.
Beside her stood Colin's father.
Then Colin's sister.
Then her husband.
Then their four-year-old son.
Around them were eleven suitcases.
Eleven.
I turned slowly toward my husband.
Colin was smiling.
Not nervously.
Proudly.
Like he was waiting for applause.
May you like
“Surprise,” he said.
And in that single moment, the five-day break I had been promised began disappearing before we'd even entered the airport.
