When I broke my arm, I thought the hardest part would be caring for my five-month-old twins while I healed. I was wrong. The real pain came from realizing how little my husband understood about what I carried every day, and how far I would have to go to make him see it.
“Brianna?”
I did not answer right away. Mason stood in the doorway of my mother’s living room, staring at Liam in her arms, Noah in mine, and the diaper bag I had packed for more than one night. His face changed instantly as he took in the scene.
“Brianna?” he asked again, his tone tightening. “Why are the boys staying here?”
I looked at him directly, offering no pretense. “Because my arm is broken, Mason.”
“I know that,” he countered quickly.
“Apparently you don’t,” I replied, keeping my voice steady. “You don’t even understand that I need help.”
