Hi, I’m Anna. I’m 32, and until recently, I thought my life was pretty normal. I live in a quiet suburb in Illinois with my husband, Jake, and our three-year-old twins, Olivia and Max. Life hasn’t been perfect, but I always told myself I was holding it all together. At least, that’s what I believed.
Jake and I have been married six years. We met in college—I was studying early childhood education, and he was buried in computer science projects. These days, he works in IT, earns a good living, and follows the usual dad routine.
He gets home around dinnertime, cracks a few jokes, hugs the kids, and then disappears into his man cave, lit by the glow of his computer screens.
Meanwhile, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom since the twins were born. I used to tell myself it was temporary, just until they turned three. But anyone who’s raised toddlers knows it’s a constant mix of beauty, exhaustion, and nonstop chaos.
Going back to work feels like a distant fantasy—one you daydream about while scrubbing blueberry stains out of tiny socks at midnight.
Jake clocks out at 5 p.m. sharp every day. He strolls in, ruffles Max’s hair, says, “Hey, sport,” tosses his backpack on the couch, and vanishes behind the glowing blue door that screams, “Do Not Disturb.” That’s his gaming sanctuary.
As for me? I handle everything else—cooking, cleaning, preschool applications, laundry, pediatrician visits, grocery runs, meal prep, diaper blowouts, tantrums, and bedtime stories. I haven’t peed alone since 2021.
Yet somehow, I’m the one who “looks tired” or “needs to put more effort in,” while Jake is the hero who’s “exhausted from work.”
Everything changed last month.
I remember it clearly. The twins were down for a nap, and I was folding what felt like the hundredth towel of the day when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Jake:
“Hey, I invited the guys over tonight. Just a chill beer night. Can you make something decent so I’m not embarrassed?”
No please. No heads-up. Just a demand.
I stared at the screen, fingers itching to fire back, “Make your own freaking dinner.” But I took a deep breath and decided: fine. Let him have his precious “boys’ night.”
I roasted a whole chicken from scratch, whipped up garlic mashed potatoes, prepped two salads, and even set out chips and salsa like a mini Thanksgiving feast. By the time the doorbell rang, the house smelled amazing.
Jake’s friends—Mark, Brian, and Kyle, the new guy—arrived. I smiled politely, scooped up Max mid-tantrum, and started the bedtime routine. From the baby monitor, I could hear laughter, bottles clinking, sports talk, and a few dumb jokes. Then I froze.
“So,” someone said, probably Brian, “is Anna going back to work soon? Are you guys thinking about getting help with the kids?”
Jake answered casually, loud enough for me to hear:
“Man, I hope so. I’m tired of being the ONLY breadwinner here. Maybe we’ll get a babysitter. Hopefully a HOT one, you know? I love aesthetics.”
Laughter erupted. Jake laughed too.
I stood there, heart tightening, face burning. Not angry yet—just stunned. Humiliated. That phrase played in my head like a broken record: “Hopefully a hot one. I love aesthetics.”
A few days later, I dropped the bait over breakfast while he munched cereal:
“Hey, dear,” I said, smiling softly. “I think I’m ready to go back to work.”
Jake’s eyes widened mid-bite. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “Yeah. The kids are three. It’s time. We should start looking for a babysitter so the kids feel comfortable.”
His face lit up. “You’re really okay with that?”
“Oh yes,” I said, smoothing a napkin. “It’ll be good for me to contribute financially again. And finally, we’ll get some help around here.”
Jake practically bounced. “That’s great! I’ll help you find a babysitter. Someone responsible, experienced, and professional.”
I sipped my coffee, giving him a soft look. “Of course. Professionalism is very important.”
For the next few days, he became suspiciously helpful, scrolling through babysitting websites like it was a hobby, texting me profile after profile—each woman looking like a yoga-magazine model.
One read: “Certified yoga instructor with experience in holistic play and organic meal planning.”
Jake sent it with a wink emoji: “She seems qualified 😉.”
I typed back, “Oh yes. She looks very… experienced.”
He had no clue. And that’s when I put my plan into motion.
Last Thursday, while Jake was at work, I made a few calls and found someone who checked all his boxes—beautiful, smart, dependable. But there was one twist he’d never see coming.
By afternoon, I texted him:
“Hey, love! I found someone great! I think you’ll be happy. The babysitter is exactly your type.”
He replied instantly:
“Can’t wait to meet her 😏. Only the best for our kids.”
I smiled tightly. The babysitter was coming tomorrow. And Jake had no idea who it really was.
Jake came home early that day—first clue. He never does.
Then the scent of his cologne—strong, expensive, the kind he wears on date nights. Clue number two.
I didn’t even look up when he strolled in. “Wow, you look… refreshed,” I said, flicking Max’s tiny socks into the laundry basket.
Jake chuckled, pretending to act casual. “Gotta make a good impression, right? So, when’s she coming?”
I glanced at the clock. “Any minute now.”
He had changed into his nice shirt—the deep blue one that makes his eyes pop—and non-sagging jeans. Clue three. He was trying. Hard.
The doorbell rang. I smiled, setting the laundry aside. “Oh, perfect timing. Ready to meet the new babysitter?”
Jake clapped like he was greeting royalty. “Absolutely.”
I opened the door with all the grace I’d been saving for this moment.
And there stood Chris. Tall, athletic, clean-cut, warm smile, folder in hand. A man who looked like he could teach preschool, coach Little League, and save kittens in his spare time.
“Hi!” he said cheerfully. “You must be Mr. Daniels. I’m Chris, the babysitter.”
Jake blinked. “Uh… hi? Wait. You’re the babysitter?”
Chris nodded. “Yep. CPR certified, bachelor’s in child development, former Little League coach. I’m excited to work with your wife and kids.”
Jake froze, trying to process it.
I tilted my head, smiling. “Oh, honey, remember? You said you hoped for a hot babysitter. Didn’t realize you meant a woman.”
Chris grinned. “Ah, thank you! I do get that a lot.”
Jake’s face went red. He stammered, “Well… uh… I’m sure you’re great, man, but I don’t think we really need…”
“Oh, but we do!” I interrupted, cheerful. “You said it yourself. And he’s exactly what we need. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, no… of course not,” Jake mumbled, defeated.
Chris started the next day, and he was amazing. Max latched onto him in five minutes. Olivia hosted a tea party and called him “Mr. Chris.” He read bedtime stories, cleaned up meals, and even fixed the squeaky cabinet hinge Jake had ignored for three months.
I watched Jake from the hallway. He sat on the couch, book in hand, glancing toward the playroom every two minutes.
After Chris left, Jake turned to me: “You’re just going to keep him around?”
I smiled. “Well… until I find someone hotter.”
His mouth fell open, but he said nothing. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night.
The next morning, I woke up to coffee and pancakes. Jake was already packing Olivia’s snack bag, dressed and surprisingly attentive. By the end of the week, he was coming home an hour earlier, building blanket forts, giving baths, even cooking dinner.
I leaned on the doorframe one evening. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”
He looked sheepish. “I get it now. I was a world-class jerk. I’m sorry.”
I walked over, kissed his cheek, and said softly, “I’m glad you’re learning.”
We don’t have a babysitter anymore—not because Chris wasn’t perfect, but because what we really needed was for Jake to see how much I’d been carrying. To see how invisible I felt, and how easy it is to take someone for granted.
So yes, my husband joked about wanting a hot babysitter. Now he knows exactly what that feels like—and trust me, he’ll never make that joke again.