Chapter 4 - A Taste of His Own Medicine
The silence of the luxury hotel suite was almost disorienting. When Arthur’s driver dropped me off, the bellhop took my single duffel bag, and the front desk clerk handed me a keycard with a warm, respectful smile. Entering the room, I stood frozen in the middle of the plush carpet. There was no sound of a crying baby. No humming refrigerator. No angry voice muttering about utility bills.
I walked into the bathroom and gasped. There was a deep soaking tub surrounded by marble, plush white robes, and a rain showerhead that looked like something out of a magazine. For the first two hours, I didn't even turn on the TV. I filled the tub with steaming water, poured in lavender bath salts provided by the hotel, and sank beneath the surface until only my face was exposed. I stayed there for forty-five minutes, letting the heat penetrate deep into my aching joints and sore muscles. Nobody banged on the door. Nobody started a stopwatch. Nobody cut off the pipes.
Meanwhile, back at the condo, Arthur had set up camp in the guest room to serve as a strict, impartial monitor. He sent me hourly updates via text message, complete with photos that made me alternate between shock and a dark sense of satisfaction.
The first photo arrived at 2:00 PM: Caleb covered in yellow baby spit-up, staring helplessly at a mountain of dirty bottles in the kitchen sink. The caption from Arthur read: Consultant realizes bottles don't wash themselves. Elodie has rejected his attempt to put her down for a nap three times.
At 5:30 PM, Arthur texted again: He tried to hop into the shower after Elodie had an explosive diaper blowout all over his favorite shirt. He forgot the automated valve was set. The timer went off while his eyes were full of soap. He screamed like a banshee. Had to finish washing off in the garden hose outside because he refused to use the cold sink pitcher.
I stared at the screen, a quiet laugh escaping my lips before turning into a sigh. Caleb had lived twenty-nine years of his life believing that domestic labor was invisible, weightless magic that simply occurred while men did the ""real work."" He had grown up with a wealthy father who, despite his tough exterior, had provided him with every imaginable luxury. When Caleb married me, he had assumed the role of the patriarch without possessing any of the empathy, sacrifice, or maturity required to protect a family.
By 9:00 PM, my phone started buzzing with incoming calls from Caleb. I let it ring twice before picking up.
""Tessa!"" Caleb’s voice was hysterical, cracked with exhaustion. In the background, Elodie was wailing at the top of her lungs. ""You have to come back! She won't stop crying! I gave her the bottle, I changed her diaper, I rocked her, but she hates me! She just screams every time I hold her!""
""Did you warm the milk to room temperature, or did you microwave it?"" I asked calmly from my king-size bed.
""I... I used hot tap water to warm the bottle, but it took too long!"" he shouted over the cries. ""Tessa, please! My back is killing me, I haven't eaten all day, and Dad won't let me order takeout because he says it's outside my 'efficiency budget'!""
""Caleb,"" I said evenly. ""You told me taking care of her was a vacation. You told me I had all the time in the world. Surely a brilliant analytics consultant can solve a simple baby routine without my help.""
""Tessa, don't be cruel—""
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""I was bleeding, Caleb,"" I interrupted, my voice dropping to a low, razor-sharp whisper. ""I had a second-degree tear and an infected episiotomy incision, and you stood outside the bathroom door with a plastic timer telling me I was wasting your money. You don't get to call me cruel.""
I hung up the phone and turned it on silent. For the first time in six weeks, I closed my eyes and slept for seven uninterrupted hours.
