But that was all for show.

The truth? I’m raising two kids with a guy who calls himself my husband but feels more like a roommate I barely know.

My name’s Emily, and I’m home with our newborn daughter, barely holding it together. Sleep is a distant memory, snatched in one-hour slivers between feedings at 1 a.m., 3 a.m., 5 a.m. I’m juggling it all—cooking, cleaning, folding tiny onesies with one hand while soothing a fussy baby with the other. I’m helping our seven-year-old with her coloring books while my brain’s racing, wondering if there’s enough milk in the fridge for the next feeding.

And Mark? He “works from home” in some vague tech job. As far as I can tell, it’s a few emails, hours of YouTube, and Zoom