More moments where my kids talk over each other, where Mikaela’s feet swing beneath the table, where Jayne’s hand brushes mine when she reaches for the water pitcher.
More dinners where I’m not checking my phone or mentally running through post-op notes.
Afterward, Jayne shoos me away from the dishes—“Go sit. You’ve done enough”—but I stay anyway. We clean shoulder to shoulder. An unfamiliar domestic choreography, but it fits surprisingly well.
She opens the pantry and whistles. “Someone’s beenbusy.”
I nod sheepishly. “I think I’m trying to organize my way to competence.”
She watches me for a moment before asking, “How was your first day of being a civilian?”
I huff a laugh. “Terrifying and weirdly satisfying.”
Her mouth curves. “Welcome to my world.”
I look into her warm brown eyes and see no judgment there. I don’t know if she knows this, but she’s already forgiven my sins because this is who my wife is, the kindest fucking soul in the world. After years of being absent, I take a six-month sabbatical, and she’s ready to look past my screw ups.
“Thank you for welcoming me into it, baby.”
She flushes, and I kiss her. I’ve been doing a lot more of that, more than the perfunctory hello and goodbye. We are also hugging more, like we used to, and that dopamine shot is just as good as it’s purported to be.
It’s not just the big things I’ve missed. It’s the small things. Kissing my kids goodnight. Reading to Mikaela. Talking to Finn, asking him about his day. Pouring myself and Jayne a glass of wine as a nightcap.
Later, after the kids are in bed, I collapse on the couch, muscles heavy from a day that shouldn’t be this tiring but somehow is. Jayne curls up beside me, her head on my shoulder, a glass of port in hand.
I breathe her in.
I’m aware that I almost destroyedusbecause I was too distracted to see it slipping away.
“Thank you for today,” she murmurs.
“Thank you for all the years you’ve been doing this,” I whisper back. “And you did it while having a job. It should be easier for me since I’m only doing house stuff.”
I have no idea how she managed all this with work. I couldn’t do it. I know that I couldn’t because I tried and failed.
Her fingers curl around mine. “You’re doing fine, Rhys, don’t be too hard on yourself.”
“Trust me, baby, I’m not being hard enough,” I tell her sincerely. “I know I missed out on a lot, ignored your cries for help, but I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”
She sniffles, and I hold her close, tight.
I want every evening to end like this with us in peace with each other. Whether it’s just sitting with a drink or watching a movie or mindless TV, I want it to be with her. Even after my sabbatical ends, I have to make changes to my schedule because my life needs to be more than the hospital and my patients—otherwise, I will be living a half-life.
The epiphanies keep coming, and after a week as a stay-at-home dad and husband, I’m surprised by how little I miss the hospital. A big part of it is that everything is a challenge, everything is a learning experience. From packing snacks for Finn to watching Mikaela at gymnastics (she’s fantastic), I’m gaining knowledge and skills. Housework is not heart surgery,but it does require time and consistency. Taking care of children like this, being the one they come tofirst,is all about being flexible and available.
Being present.
I’m still not as competent as I’d like to be.
In an effort to feed my family more than just takeout sushi and Indian, or my pasta, I decide to roast a chicken and serve it with all the trimmings. Stuffing. Green beans, the way Jayne makes them with garlic and tomatoes. And my favorite, garlic mashed potatoes.
I have no idea how to cook all of this, but I have YouTube.
I make a shopping list and decide to go grocery shopping in person, not virtually. A blog I read mentioned that walking around the aisles is an inspiring experience for any amateur cook.
I’m halfway down the produce aisle, feeling proud of myself for finding everything I had on my shopping list, when someone calls out my name.
I turn to see Tory. She’s in jeans and a loose shirt, her hair pulled back, with a cart half-full. She’s the last person I want to see.
