“You could’ve given birth faster,” he said. “The apartment is filthy.”
I stood there, still in pain, holding our daughters, trying to process what I had just heard.
When I stepped inside, the smell hit me first. It was the kind of smell you’d expect near a dumpster — old food, trash, neglect.
I walked into the living room and froze.
Plates with dried food were scattered everywhere. Flies hovered over leftovers on the table. Crumbs were pressed deep into the carpet. Takeout containers were piled near the couch. And on the coffee table, there was even a used tissue.
It didn’t look like a home anymore.
“Sam,” I called out, my voice shaking, “what is this?”
He barely looked up from the couch.
“This is your mess,” he said. “I told you—you should’ve come back sooner. Nobody’s been cleaning.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I had just gone through one of the most physically exhausting experiences of my life… and he was blaming me for a mess he had created.
Before I could respond, one of the babies started crying. I rushed into the bedroom, trying to calm her down, holding back everything I was feeling.
That’s when my phone buzzed.
Sam had posted on Instagram.
It was a photo of our apartment — exactly as it was.
Dirty. Neglected.
The caption read:
“MY SLOBBY WIFE HASN’T CLEANED THE APARTMENT IN A MONTH. DOES ANYONE KNOW WHEN THIS IS GOING TO STOP?”
I stared at the screen in disbelief.
The comments were already coming in. Strangers were calling me lazy, irresponsible, a bad wife.
I felt the tears in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
That night, after putting the babies to sleep, I walked back into the living room and hugged Sam.
“I’m sorry,” I told him quietly. “Tomorrow night, I’ll take you out. We’ll celebrate being back together.”
He smiled, clearly pleased.
