My name is Rory. I’m thirty-two years old, living in a quiet Illinois neighborhood with my husband, Damon, and our three-year-old twins, Bonnie and Sawyer. From the outside, our life probably looked calm and well-organized. Inside, it was being held together almost entirely by me.
Every evening followed the same pattern. Damon came home around dinnertime, lifted Sawyer for a quick laugh, kissed Bonnie’s curls, and then disappeared into his gaming room. The door closed, the blue glow of screens flickered underneath, and I was left with the rest: dinner, tantrums, laundry piles, appointments, groceries, baths, bedtime stories, and nights that never really ended.
Somehow, despite all of that, I was the one who “always looked exhausted.”
Things changed one night not long ago.
The twins were finally asleep. I was folding tiny socks when a message from Damon popped up on my phone:
The guys are coming over for beers. Can you make something decent so I don’t look cheap?
No heads-up. No courtesy. Just an expectation.
I stared at the screen, ready to reply with something sharp. Instead, I paused. I breathed. And I decided to let him walk straight into his own lesson.
That evening, I cooked like it was a celebration. A perfectly roasted chicken, creamy garlic mashed potatoes, fresh salads, chips, and homemade salsa. The house smelled warm and inviting when his friends arrived.
I welcomed them, smiled politely, then took the kids upstairs for baths and bedtime. I left the baby monitor on downstairs without a word.
At first, it was just laughter and sports talk drifting up the stairs. Then I heard one of his friends ask:
“So, Rory going back to work anytime soon? You guys thinking about childcare?”
There was a short pause. Then Damon laughed.
“God, I hope so. I’m tired of carrying everything financially. We’ll definitely get a babysitter. Preferably a hot one. I like good aesthetics.”
The room erupted with laughter. Damon laughed the loudest.
I stood frozen in the hallway, toothbrush halfway to Bonnie’s mouth. The words didn’t make me angry right away. They made me feel invisible. Like I’d been reduced to a joke in my own home.
I didn’t confront him the next day. Or the day after that.
But I never forgot the sentence.
A week later, while Damon was eating breakfast, I casually said:
“I think I’m ready to go back to work. The kids are old enough. We should probably hire a babysitter.”
His reaction was instant. His face lit up.
“Really? That’s amazing!”
I took a sip of coffee and smiled. “Of course, we’ll want someone responsible… experienced… and attractive. You seemed to care about that.”
He nearly choked, then recovered quickly.
“Yeah! I mean—sure. I’ll handle it.”
For days, he scrolled babysitting websites like it was his second job. He sent me profile after profile of young women with flawless photos and flirty bios. Each message ended with a wink.
I said nothing. I let him enjoy himself.
Quietly, I made my own arrangements.
Thursday evening, I texted him:
Found the perfect sitter. Comes tomorrow at four. Exactly your type 😉
His reply came instantly:
Can’t wait 😏
On Friday, he came home early. Dressed nicely. Wearing cologne. Clearly excited.
At four o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door with a calm smile.
Standing there was Wallace. Tall, confident, friendly, holding a folder of references.
“Hi,” he said cheerfully. “You must be Mr. Daniels. I’m Wallace, your new babysitter.”
Damon’s expression collapsed in real time.
“You’re… the babysitter?”
Wallace nodded. “CPR certified, degree in child development, lots of experience. I’m excited to work with the kids.”
I tilted my head innocently. “Is something wrong? You said you wanted someone hot. Wallace fits the description. I didn’t realize you had specific preferences.”
Wallace chuckled. “I get that reaction sometimes.”
Damon turned bright red and didn’t say another word that evening.
By Monday, Wallace had already won the twins over. By Wednesday, he’d fixed things Damon had ignored for months, cooked creative breakfasts, and kept the house running smoothly.
Damon started coming home earlier. Watching. Observing. Learning.
One evening, I found him cooking dinner from scratch.
“I was wrong,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t see how much you do. I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “Good. Now keep proving it.”
We didn’t keep Wallace forever. I paid him generously and thanked him sincerely.
Because the babysitter was never the real lesson.
The lesson was respect. And Damon finally learned it.
He hasn’t made that joke again.
And he never will.
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