“I have given this man two perfect children, and this is how he repays me? By saying ‘no’ to a third? The betrayal. The audacity. The cowardice.”
I love my husband. I do. Truly.
But right now, I’d love him more if he stopped being so stubborn.
“Darling, we already have two children,” he says, rubbing his temples like I’m suggesting we adopt an entire orphanage. (Not the worst idea, honestly.)
I cross my arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. “And?”
“And?” He looks at me like I’ve just asked why fire is hot. “That’s enough.”
I gasp. Dramatically. Offended. Betrayed. “Enough? Enough?”
He exhales through his nose. “Bruce—”
“No, no, I get it,” I say, waving a hand. “Two is enough. Wouldn’t want to turn this house into a chaotic, noisy, loving home or anything.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It already is.”
…Okay, fair.
From the living room, Dick shouts, “Jason! Spit it out! You can’t eat Legos!”
“Can too!” Jason yells back. I hear a crash. A scream. Something shattering. Possibly my sanity.
I gesture vaguely toward the scene of the crime. “See? Perfectly responsible. Clearly, we’re great at parenting.”
My husband runs a hand down his face. “Bruce.”
“Come on, just one more,” I try again, stepping closer, lowering my voice in what I think is a seductive way. It works sometimes. Not today, though, because he just sighs.
“You’ve already given birth twice, love. You need to rest.”
I wave that off. “I like being pregnant.”
He frowns. “You cried because you couldn’t see your feet.”
I scowl. “That was one time.”
“And you said—” He clears his throat and deepens his voice mockingly. “—‘If I ever suggest doing this again, remind me that my organs relocated themselves for a tiny dictator.’”
I blink. “…I don’t recall saying that.”