While I was drowning in diapers and midnight feedings, my husband found a bold new way to say, “Not my problem.” He didn’t use words. He used a sign.
From the outside, we looked like a Pinterest-perfect family.
White picket fence. A swing set in the backyard. Our five-year-old’s chalk drawings decorated the driveway like little masterpieces. We even had matching Adirondack chairs lined up on the porch, as if we actually sat there watching sunsets together.
But let me tell you the truth. I live with a man who calls himself my husband, but in every way that counts, I’m a single mom with a roommate.
My name is Jenna, and I’m currently on maternity leave with our second daughter. I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks. I breastfeed at 2 a.m., 4 a.m., and then again at 6 a.m.
I clean, cook, and fold tiny onesies with one hand while bouncing a fussy baby on my hip with the other. And while I’m helping our five-year-old color inside the lines, I’m also mentally calculating if I have enough milk thawed for the next feeding.
And Rick? He works from home “in tech.” That’s how he describes it. From what I can tell, it involves three emails a day, endless YouTube videos, and muting himself on Zoom to laugh at memes.
But the part that makes my blood boil?
He installed a Do Not Disturb sign on the office door.
Not as a joke.
Not once for a meeting.
It’s parmanent. Screwed in like a cruel punchline I was never in on.
“Babe, I’m working,” he said the first time I knocked while the baby screamed in my arms and our toddler tried to climb the bookshelf. “You know the sign’s up.”
I knew. Oh, I knew. But I didn’t know what would happen when I stopped knocking.
And that’s where things started to change.
The first time I knocked, it was chaos. The baby was screaming, our toddler had an accident on the rug, and I was this close to a breakdown.
Rick cracked the door just an inch and peered out like I was the mailman interrupting his game.
“Can’t you see the sign?” he said, pointing like it was sacred. “You have to respect boundaries, babe.”
I blinked. “Wait, are you… serious?”
“Dead serious,” he replied, already closing the door. “Boundaries, Jenna.”
I stood there in stunned silence, baby wailing on my shoulder, and the smell of urine soaking into the carpet.
That moment? It became the norm.
Any time I knocked, even just asking, begging, for ten minutes to shower or eat something, he’d point.
“The sign’s up,” he’d say without even looking away from his screen.
“Rick, I haven’t had alone time in a week.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” he muttered. “I’m the one bringing in money here.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I bit my tongue so hard.
Then came the day that broke me.
The baby had colic. She cried for two hours, full-blown, back-arching agony. I rocked her till my arms trembled. Sang lullabies till my throat burned. Our older daughter stood by my leg, tugging my shirt.
“Mommy, can we play princess now? You promised!“
“I know, sweetie. I just—” I turned, almost in tears. I knocked on Rick’s door. Once.
He yanked it open. “Jenna, are you kidding me? I’m in the zone. I need mental space too, okay? This is my time.”
“Your time?” I repeated, stunned.
“I work all day. I don’t get to nap or scroll Instagram like you do. Respect the sign.”
Something in me cracked.
I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Okay. You want to be undisturbed? Fine. I’ll make sure you are.”
He shrugged, already turning back to his desk.
But I wasn’t done.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell.
I planned.
The next day was Thursday — Rick’s big “team sync” meeting. The only time all week he had to show his face on camera instead of grunting into a headset. As soon as I heard the click of his office door locking, I got to work.
First, I recreated his precious “Do Not Disturb” sign. Same bold font. Same obnoxious red letters. But this version had… flair.
DO NOT DISTURB — Dad Doesn’t Do Diapers, Dishes, or Discipline. Please contact Mom for all parenting duties. She’s the actual adult in the house.
