My life as Anna, a stay-at-home mom to the three-year-old twins, Olivia and Max, had become a demanding, exhausting mix of beauty and chaos in a quiet suburb of Illinois. I handled the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the doctor visits, the diaper blowouts, the temper tantrums, and the bedtime stories. My husband, Jake, who works in IT, follows a usual dad routine: he gets home, gives the kids a quick hug, and then disappears into his man cave, treating me like a glorified assistant. The shift started last month when he texted me, barking out a request to make “something decent so I’m not embarrassed” because he had invited the guys over for a beer night. I roasted a whole chicken and prepared two salads, setting out chips and salsa like I was catering a neighborhood potluck. While I was upstairs putting the twins to bed, I overheard the voices of Jake and his friends, Mark, Brian, and Kyle, through the baby monitor. Brian asked if I was going back to work, and if they were thinking about getting help with the kids. Jake responded, casual and loud, saying he hoped so because he was “tired of being the ONLY breadwinner here.” He then delivered the sentence that burned my cheeks: “Maybe we’ll get a babysitter. Hopefully a HOT one, you know? I love aesthetics.” The laughter that erupted afterwards made my chest tighten, and my face went hot with the sting of humiliation. I didn’t say a word that night, but the words kept playing over and over in my head like a broken loop.
A few days later, while Jake was munching his cereal at the kitchen counter, I decided to casually drop the bait. I leaned in with a small smile and said, “I feel like I’m ready to go back to work.” His eyes went wide with shock and excitement. I nodded, confirming that the kids were three now and that it was time. I told him we should start looking for a babysitter so the kids would feel comfortable. His entire face lit up. He practically bounced in his seat, saying he would help me find a babysitter for the twins. He stated he knew what to look for: “someone responsible, experienced, and professional.” I gave him a soft look and agreed that professionalism was very important. Just like that, he was on it. For the next few days, Jake became suspiciously helpful, scrolling on babysitting websites like it was a hobby. He kept texting me “options” throughout the day, and every profile photo looked like it belonged on the front of a yoga magazine. He sent me a description from one woman that literally read, “Certified yoga instructor with experience in holistic play and organic meal planning,” along with a wink emoji and the message: “She seems qualified 😉.” I stared at my phone, blinked once, and typed back: “Oh yes. She looks very… experienced.” He had no clue what I was planning, as he kept throwing names, links, and screenshots at me like he was running a casting call. That’s when I knew it was time to put my plan in motion, letting him assume the “hot” part meant only a specific aesthetic.
Last Thursday, Jake came home an hour before his usual time. He never comes home early unless it is something important, or something he is truly looking forward to. I was folding a load of laundry while trying to keep Olivia from drawing on the walls with a marker when I heard the garage door open. The second clue was the scent: his strong and expensive cologne, the kind he only wore for date nights or office parties. I didn’t even look up when he strolled in, just flicked a pair of Max’s tiny socks into the laundry basket and noted that he looked “refreshed.” Jake chuckled, pretending to act casual, running a hand through his freshly styled hair, asking when “she” was coming. I told him it would be “any minute now.” He adjusted the collar of his deep blue button-up shirt—his one nice shirt that makes his eyes pop—and his jeans that weren’t sagging from two days of sitting in front of the PlayStation. He was trying hard. The doorbell rang right on cue. I smiled, set the laundry basket aside, and asked Jake if he was “Ready to meet the new babysitter?” He clapped his hands together once, preparing to greet royalty. I opened the door with the kind of grace I’d been holding back for this exact moment. And there stood Chris. He was tall, athletic, and clean-cut, with a warm smile. He wore a pressed polo and khakis and held a neat folder filled with printed references. Chris looked like someone straight out of a TV drama about wholesome dads who are good at everything, clearly meeting the criteria for “aesthetics.”
“Hi!” Chris said cheerfully, offering his hand. “You must be Mr. Daniels. I’m Chris, the babysitter.” I could hear the gears in Jake’s brain grind to a complete halt. He blinked, trying to process the person standing in front of him. “Uh, hi?” Jake looked at me, then back at Chris. “Wait. You’re the babysitter?” Chris nodded without missing a beat, confirming he was CPR certified, had a bachelor’s in child development, and used to coach Little League. He was genuinely looking forward to working with me and the kids. Jake stammered, his expression panicked, saying he thought I said something else. I tilted my head and gave him a pointed smile. “Oh, honey, remember? You said you hoped for a hot babysitter. So I found one. I didn’t realize you meant a woman.” Chris, bless his sweet soul, just grinned and said he gets that a lot. Jake’s face went from pink to deep red in five seconds flat. His mouth twitched, but he couldn’t find anything to say that didn’t sound completely stupid, so he tried to dismiss Chris by muttering he didn’t think we really needed help. “Oh, but we do!” I interrupted, cheerful as ever. “You said it yourself. We need help. And he’s exactly what we need. You don’t mind, do you?” I watched him try to claw his way out of the corner he had put himself in, but there was no exit. He mumbled, “No, no… of course not,” with stiff shoulders, officially beaten.
Chris started the very next day, and he was absolutely amazing. The kids, Olivia and Max, loved him immediately. Max latched onto his leg within five minutes, and Olivia made him sit for a tea party, calling him “Mr. Chris.” Chris didn’t just play with them; he cleaned up after meals, read bedtime stories, and even fixed the squeaky cabinet hinge Jake had promised to repair for three whole months. I watched Jake that evening from the hallway. He sat on the couch with a book in his lap, but his eyes kept flicking over the top of the pages toward the playroom every two minutes. When Chris finally left, Jake shut the book and looked up at me. “So you’re just going to keep him around?” I leaned against the counter and smiled, delivering my final joke: “Well, until I find someone hotter.” Jake didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. Later in the hallway, he finally turned to me, raising his eyebrows, demanding, “A guy? To babysit? Anna, what were you thinking?” I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall. My voice was quiet but firm. “Why not? He’s professional, experienced, and hot. You said that’s what you were looking for, didn’t you?” His jaw clenched, and he said, “That’s not funny.” I stepped closer and looked him dead in the eye. “Neither was what you said in front of your friends. Or how you treat me like a glorified maid in my own home.” He opened his mouth, but he didn’t have a comeback, muttering something about “double standards” and walking into the kitchen like a sulky teenager.
The next morning, I woke up to the wonderful smell of coffee and pancakes. Jake was in the kitchen, already dressed, and packing Olivia’s snack bag. By the end of the week, he was coming home a whole hour earlier. He started asking the kids questions, building blanket forts, and giving baths. One night, I walked in to find him making real dinner, not the frozen pizza kind. I leaned on the doorframe, questioning him: “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?” Jake looked up with tired eyes and a sheepish grin. “I get it now,” he said. “I was a world-class jerk. And I’m sorry.” He paused, expecting me to rub it in or bite back, but I didn’t. I walked over, kissed his cheek, and said quietly, “I’m glad you’re learning.” We don’t have a babysitter anymore. It’s not that Chris wasn’t perfect; he absolutely was. But after a few weeks, I realized we didn’t actually need one. What we really needed was for Jake to understand how much I had been carrying. I needed him to see how invisible I had started to feel, and how easy it is to take someone for granted when you believe they will never leave, never change, and never push back. So yes, my husband joked about wanting a hot babysitter. Now he knows exactly what that feels like.
