My phone buzzed on my desk.
“Linda – Mother-in-Law.”
I answered, expecting a quick check-in.
“Mark, did you grab the diaper bag from the porch?” she asked, slightly out of breath. “You forgot it when you picked up Leo.”
I froze.
“Linda? It’s Sarah. Mark isn’t here. He’s… at home with Leo.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
“Oh,” she said finally, flustered. “I—I thought I called Mark. Never mind, dear.”
“Linda,” I said slowly, my heart pounding. “Why would Mark be picking up Leo? He’s been home with him all day. He’s a stay-at-home dad now. Remember? He sends me pictures. Updates.”
She exhaled, a long sigh filled with pity.
“Sarah… Mark drops Leo off at my house every morning at 8:00. He picks him up at 5:00 PM. Every weekday. And he takes the dinner I cook. I also come by on Tuesdays and Thursdays to clean while he’s… out.”
The room tilted.
The spotless house? His mother.
The hot meals? His mother.
The calm, happy baby? His mother.
“Where does he go?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He told me you knew. Said you hired me because you were worried about him handling everything alone. He said he spent the days looking for freelance work.”
I left work immediately.
I didn’t go home.
I parked down the street and waited.
At 5:15 PM, Mark’s car pulled into the driveway. He stepped out looking relaxed. Rested. Not exhausted—refreshed. He reached into the backseat, grabbed a foil-covered casserole dish, then lifted the baby carrier.
Before opening the door, he paused. Ran a hand through his hair to mess it up. Untucked his shirt.
He was preparing for his role.
I walked up the driveway just as he opened the door.
“Hey babe!” he said brightly, flashing that familiar smile. “Whew, what a day. Leo was a handful, and I scrubbed the bathroom—but I managed to make your favorite lasagna.”
I looked at the casserole dish.
Then at him.
“Linda called,” I said quietly.
The color drained from his face instantly. He didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. He just sagged.
The truth came spilling out.
He spent his days at a friend’s house—playing video games, napping, going to the gym. He wanted the praise of being a “modern, hands-on dad” without doing the work. He wanted admiration. Gratitude. Applause.
He wanted to be the hero.
Instead, he’s sleeping on his mother’s couch now—actually this time.
Because pretending to be a parent is easy.
Explaining to your wife why you faked it?
That’s the part he couldn’t escape.
