My name is Emily, I’m 35 years old, and I live in Columbus, Ohio. My husband, Mark, and I have two kids—ages six and four. Like many couples, we both work full time. Like many families, we’re busy, tired, and constantly negotiating who handles what. The problem was that Mark didn’t see parenting as a shared responsibility. Whenever I asked him to watch the kids so I could run errands, see a friend, or even attend a work event, he’d say the same thing: “I’m not babysitting. They’re your plans.” That word—babysitting—made my jaw tighten every time. I handled mornings, meals, homework, doctor appointments, birthday parties, school emails, and bedtime routines. Mark helped when it was convenient, but only when framed as “help,” never as his job. The breaking point came when my sister asked me to attend her out-of-town graduation for one night. I asked Mark weeks in advance. He sighed and said he didn’t want to deal with “chaos” alone.
“So… you’re saying no?” I asked. “I’m saying it’s not my responsibility,” he replied. Something in me went quiet. I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I just nodded and said, “Okay.” That weekend, I packed a bag—not for my sister’s graduation, but for myself. On Friday morning, I kissed the kids goodbye, handed Mark a printed schedule, and said, “I’m going to a hotel nearby. I’ll be back Sunday night.” He laughed at first. Thought I was joking. I wasn’t. I turned off my phone notifications and checked into a modest hotel ten minutes away. I slept. I read. I ate hot meals without interruption. I ignored missed calls and only replied once with: They’re your kids. You’ll figure it out. By Saturday afternoon, he was frantic. Messages poured in—complaints about tantrums, meals, laundry, exhaustion. He said he “didn’t sign up for this.”
I finally replied: Neither did I. I just showed up. When I came home Sunday night, the house was messy, the kids were fine, and Mark looked like he’d aged five years. He didn’t apologize right away. But the next morning, he said something different: “I didn’t realize how much you do.”That wasn’t enough by itself. So we talked. Really talked. About language. About responsibility. About how calling it “babysitting” erased his role as a parent. Things didn’t magically fix overnight. But they changed. Now, when I need time, he doesn’t sigh. He parents. When someone asks who’s watching the kids, he says, “I am.” The lesson wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t loud. It was simple: you don’t get to opt out of a role just because someone else has been carrying it for too long.