It was 2:04 a.m. when our daughter, Rosie, let out a wail that shook the house. This wasn’t a little whimper—it was full-on diaper disaster mode. I’d already been up three times that night, running on empty from juggling deadlines and mom duties. My body ached, my mind was mush. I nudged my husband, Cole, and whispered, “Can you take this one? I’ll grab a fresh outfit and the wipes.”
He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. “You handle it,” he mumbled. “I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow.” I paused, halfway out of bed. “Cole, it’s bad. I need backup.” That’s when he said it—calmly, confidently, like it was a fact:
“Diaper duty isn’t for men. Just deal with it.”
It hit like a punch to the gut—not just the words, but how sure he was. As if being a dad meant clocking in when convenient. As if I wasn’t working just as hard, just as exhausted, with no room to opt out. I didn’t fight. I didn’t break down. I just walked into Rosie’s room, cleaned her up, and whispered, “Mommy’s got you.” But silently, I asked myself: Who’s got me?
That’s when I remembered the phone number tucked inside a shoebox—Walter, Cole’s father, who he hadn’t spoken to in years. I’d reached out once after Rosie was born to send a photo. His reply? “She’s beautiful. Thank you for the kindness I don’t deserve.”