Before I could respond, one of the babies started crying. I rushed into the bedroom, trying to calm her down, holding back everything I was feeling.
That’s when my phone buzzed.
Sam had posted on Instagram.
It was a photo of our apartment — exactly as it was.
Dirty. Neglected.
The caption read:
“MY SLOBBY WIFE HASN’T CLEANED THE APARTMENT IN A MONTH. DOES ANYONE KNOW WHEN THIS IS GOING TO STOP?”
I stared at the screen in disbelief.
The comments were already coming in. Strangers were calling me lazy, irresponsible, a bad wife.
I felt the tears in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
That night, after putting the babies to sleep, I walked back into the living room and hugged Sam.
“I’m sorry,” I told him quietly. “Tomorrow night, I’ll take you out. We’ll celebrate being back together.”
He smiled, clearly pleased.
He had no idea what I was planning.
The next evening, I handed him a blindfold and told him I had a surprise.
He laughed, thinking it was something romantic.
I drove him across town without saying a word.
When we arrived, I helped him out of the car and led him inside.
