When I went on maternity leave with our two kids, my husband often joked that I was just “relaxing at home.” One day, tired of the teasing, I challenged him to live my life for a day. He laughed and agreed. So the next morning, I handed him the reins and left the house at 9 a.m., curious to see how he’d manage. When I returned that evening, everything looked picture-perfect — the house was tidy, the kids were fed, and dinner was waiting on the table. For a moment, guilt washed over me. Maybe I really wasn’t doing enough.
But then I looked closer. The laundry was still sitting wet in the washer, the baby’s clothes didn’t match, and dinner smelled suspiciously like takeout. My husband sat on the couch, hair sticking up, eyes half-shut, trying to smile but clearly running on fumes. Behind him, one child was happily drawing on the wall, while the other was feeding cereal to the cat.
