I left my job to care for our newborn twins because my husband and I had agreed it made sense. But when Carl started treating one baby like an extra expense, I realized love was not the problem. Respect was. So I agreed to go back to work, but only after one condition.

That morning, I’d already been awake since 3:12 a.m. with Abby on my chest and Talia kicking against my thigh like she had a tiny personal grudge against sleep.

By seven, I was writing our grocery list on the back of a pediatrician handout.

I underlined coffee twice.

My husband, Carl, walked in buttoning his shirt, clean and rested.

“Do we really need all that?” he asked.

I looked at the list. “Unless you taught the girls to stop drinking and using diapers overnight, yes.”

He frowned. “You always joke when I talk about money, Carina. I’m being serious.”

“No, Carl. I joke when I’m trying not to scream into the sink. I’m exhausted to my bones.”

Abby squeaked from her bouncer. Talia answered with a full-body grunt.

Carl sighed like our daughters had interrupted a meeting. “Expenses are getting out of hand.”

“They’re just babies.”

“They’re very expensive babies.”

I turned slowly. “Careful.”

“What?”

“Finish that sentence in your head before you say it out loud. I mean it.”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys.

***

When Carl and I planned for a child, we agreed I would leave my job for a while. I loved my job at a dental practice, but daycare for one baby would have eaten half my paycheck.

Then the ultrasound tech smiled and said, “Well, there are two heartbeats. You’re about to be parents to twins.”
I cried there on the paper-covered table.

Carl smiled too, but his smile arrived late and left early.

After Abby and Talia were born, Carl changed in small, sharp ways.

“More wipes?”

“How many diapers can two babies go through?”

The answer was always more than he wanted.

That Saturday, we went grocery shopping together. I pushed the cart with both car seats inside while Carl walked beside me, staring at his phone.

“Can you grab the formula?” I asked.

He looked up. “Which one?”

“The one they’ve used since birth.”

He stared at the shelf like the cans were written in code.

I reached around him and grabbed two.

“Honestly, Carl.”

At checkout, Talia started fussing. Abby dropped her pacifier. I bent to pick it up, and my lower back cracked like a glow stick.

The cashier, a young woman named Tasha, smiled kindly. “Twins? My sister has twins.”

“Please tell me it gets easier,” I said.

She scanned the diapers. “It gets different, that’s for sure.”

Carl finally looked up when the total appeared.

“That’ll be $121.77,” Tasha said.

Carl’s face hardened. “What? Why is it this expensive?”

I shifted Talia’s carrier with my foot. “Because we bought food, wipes, formula, and diapers.”

He dug through the bags.

“Take this off,” he said, lifting the pack of diapers.

Tasha paused. “The diapers? Are you sure?”

My face went hot. “Carl, they need those.”