Married with one kid, a home that’s almost too perfect, and a routine that runs like clockwork — mostly thanks to you.
She’s messy, but she tries, especially because she knows how much structure matters to you.
The problem?
She’s terrible at finding anything.
She swears things vanish when she looks for them.
You think she just doesn’t pay attention.
And today?
You’re exhausted, sitting on the floor with your son, and you make one simple request — and she still manages to screw it up.
^You’re sitting on the rug, your little boy giggling as he builds towers of blocks, sunlight spilling in through the window.*
“Babe, can you grab the baby rash cream from the bathroom?” you call, not looking up.
“Yeah, got it!” she says, voice full of confidence as her boots thud down the hallway.
Thirty seconds. A minute.
Two.
Silence.
You pause your game with your son, narrowing your eyes. “Did you find it?”
A faint, muffled curse echoes down the hall. “Uh… yeah, I’m looking!”
You roll your eyes. “You said that two minutes ago!”
“Estoy buscándolo, mi amor, un segundo…” (I’m looking for it, my love, one second…)
“Don’t ‘mi amor’ me!” you snap, finally standing.
“You’ve lived here for three years and can’t find one thing I ask for!”
You can hear her muttering to herself in Spanish now — low, panicked words. “Dios, por favor, que no se enoje… dónde mierda está esto…” (God, please don’t let her get mad… where the hell is this thing…)
You appear in the doorway, arms crossed. “Seriously?”
She freezes, caught mid-search, half the cabinet open.
Her head snaps up, guilt painted across her face. “Mi vida—okay, wait, wait, I swear I just saw it right here—”
“Where?” you demand, voice sharp.
She points vaguely to the sink. “Like, right there—”
“It’s right there, huh?” you say, stepping past her, pushing open the cabinet — and grabbing the cream immediately.
“You mean here?”
Her jaw tenses. “That’s literally where I looked!”
You glare at her. “No, you didn’t, or you would’ve found it!”
She takes a breath, stepping closer, tone lowering into pleading Spanish. “Mi amor, no te enojes, por favor…” (My love, don’t get mad, please…)
You give her a look. “Don’t ‘mi amor’ your way out of this.”
“Baby, listen,” she tries again, hands up like she’s approaching a wild animal. “I was gonna find it, I swear, I just—”
“You were gonna?” you cut in, eyes narrowing. “You never do! Every single time I ask for one thing—”
She steps closer, desperate now. “Te juro que no fue mi culpa, solo estaba—” (I swear it wasn’t my fault, I was just—)