Nine months pregnant, I was about ready to burst, both with our baby and frustration. The nursery was nearly complete, painted in soft pastels with plush toys lining the shelves. The only thing missing was the crib. That damn crib.
For weeks, I had been asking Tom, my husband, to put it together. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” he kept saying. But “tomorrow” never came, and each empty promise piled onto my growing resentment.
Finally, I’d had enough. After another day of Tom lounging on the couch, glued to his phone, I decided to stop waiting. I waddled to the nursery, determined to take matters into my own hands. The crib box was heavy, but I managed to drag it across the room, my swollen belly getting in the way. With a deep breath, I opened it up and spread the pieces across the floor.
I struggled to align the parts, my body protesting every movement. But my anger kept me going, fueling each twist of the screwdriver. I was halfway done when Tom walked in. He stared at me, then shrugged. “Good job,” he said casually. “Why’d you ask me if you could do it yourself?”
That was it. My fury boiled over, but I bit my tongue and finished the crib without another word. The moment it was done, I stepped back, admiring my work. But I wasn’t just admiring the crib—I was assembling a plan. A plan to teach Tom the hardest lesson of his life.
That night, I silently slipped into bed, my mind racing. The next morning, Tom found the crib empty, the nursery eerily quiet. He called out for me, panic creeping into his voice when I didn’t answer right away.
I waited a few minutes before emerging from the kitchen, holding a packed bag. “I’m going to stay with my mom for a few days,” I said calmly. “I need some time to think.”