Last week had already been rough. Maisie had been fussy for two days. I had spit-up in my hair, dried formula on the counter, and three hours of broken sleep in my body.
Gerald had spent part of the night in his office with headphones on while I felt less like a wife and more like unpaid labor with a wedding ring.
By 10 o’clock that morning, I needed a shower so badly I could have cried. I fed Maisie, changed her, laid her down drowsy, and slipped into the bathroom.
The timer was already there.
I had shampoo in my hair within 30 seconds, scrubbing spit-up off my scalp so hard it stung. Outside the door, Maisie started to fuss. Then cry.
I needed a shower so badly I could have cried.
“Jennie!” Gerald called.
“I’m almost done!” I shouted.
“Timer says otherwise,” he replied.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
