The first thing my husband said after I gave birth to triplets wasn’t “Welcome home.” It was: “You could’ve given birth faster.” He blamed me for the disgusting mess he’d been living in — and posted it on Instagram to humiliate me. So I used his little post to plan a night he’d never forget!
My name is Nicola, and I need to tell you about the worst homecoming of my life.
A month ago, I gave birth to triplets. Three beautiful girls.
The delivery was brutal.
I’m talking hours of labor, complications, an emergency C-section, and a hospital stay that felt like a year.
But we made it.
The delivery was brutal.
The day the babies and I came home felt like a triumph.
I expected balloons, maybe, or a box of chocolates.
You know what I got instead?
My husband, Sam, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.
“Finally, you’re home! You could’ve given birth faster. The apartment has gotten filthy.”
The day the babies and I came home felt like a triumph.
I stood there, holding two car seats while balancing the third on my hip, and I swear I thought I’d misheard him.
But no.
“I’ll keep out of the way so you can get to it.”
He didn’t even glance at our daughters. He just turned around and walked back to the couch, eyes glued to his phone.
I swear I thought I’d misheard him.
I hobbled inside, juggling the babies, and oh my God!
The smell hit me first — the same smell you encounter when you walk past a dumpster.
I hurried to the nursery and placed the triplets in their cribs. It took forever because they all decided to fuss at different intervals, but I eventually settled them.
When I finally got them quiet and walked into the living room, I froze.
The smell hit me first.
Everything was everywhere.
Plates crusted over with dried food (and flies) were on the table, the couch, and the floor. There were crumbs ground into the carpet.
A hill of empty takeout containers had formed in front of the TV.
And there, on the coffee table, was used toilet paper.
I was stunned.
A hill of empty takeout containers had formed in front of the TV.
More than that, actually, I was furious, and I had absolutely no idea what was happening.
“Sam!” I shouted.
“What?” he asked from the couch, all lazy and bored, like he genuinely didn’t understand why I might be upset.
“What is this?”
Sam lifted a dirty T-shirt lying next to him with two fingertips and shrugged.
I had absolutely no idea what was happening.
“This is all the mess you made,” he said. “I told you, you should’ve come back sooner, because nobody’s been cleaning the apartment.”
The nerve of him!
I was speechless.
I took a deep breath to respond, but one of the girls started crying in the bedroom.
“Nobody’s been cleaning the apartment.”
I immediately rushed to her.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
“Can you not hear the baby?” I snapped over my shoulder.
As I rocked the baby, trying to calm her down, I felt like I could explode.
I thought things couldn’t get any worse, but then my phone buzzed loudly on the dresser, waking the other two girls.
I immediately rushed to her.
Suddenly, I was pulled in every direction, trying to soothe each one while my mind raced with anger and confusion.
Finally, when I got them settled again, I grabbed my phone.
Sam had posted a new photo on Instagram.
It was our dirty, disgusting living room.
The caption read: “MY SLOBBY WIFE HASN’T CLEANED THE APARTMENT IN A MONTH. DOES ANYONE KNOW WHEN THIS IS GOING TO STOP?”
Sam had posted a new photo on Instagram.
In the time it had taken me to settle the girls, the comments had blown up.
Strangers were calling me lazy and useless, and those were the kinder comments. The really bad ones brought tears to my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall.
