He kissed my forehead.
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"My mates have organized a beach trip."
I smiled weakly.
"That's nice."
"For five days."
I stared at him.
He seemed to be waiting for me to react positively.
"Five days?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
I actually thought I had misunderstood him.
"Tomorrow?"
He nodded.
I looked down at my stomach.
Then back at him.
"Trevor, my surgery is in four days."
"I know."
"You know?"
"Of course I know."
"Then why are you going away?"
He frowned as if I had asked something unreasonable.
"Because it's just five days."
"Exactly."
"I'll be back before you know it."
I remember staring at him for several seconds without saying anything.
He sat beside me.
"It's just one last break before fatherhood," he said.
That sentence changed something inside me.
Not dramatically.
There was no screaming.
No slammed door.
No movie-style argument.
Just a quiet realization.
He was talking about fatherhood as if it were a prison sentence.
As if these babies were something happening to him.
As if he were entitled to one last holiday because soon he would have responsibilities.
"What about me?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm having surgery in four days."
"I know."
"I'll be recovering from major abdominal surgery."
"I know."
"I won't be able to lift the babies."
"You'll have your mom."
I stared at him.
"My mom is coming to help, yes."
"Exactly."
"You think that's enough?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
I couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth.
"I thought you said you had everything under control."
"I do."
"Then why are you leaving?"
He sighed.
"Because I want to enjoy myself before everything gets crazy."
Everything.
The word hurt.
Our babies were apparently "everything getting crazy."