Hi, I’m Anna. I’m 32, and until recently, I thought my life was pretty ordinary. I live in a quiet suburb in Illinois with my husband, Jake, and our three-year-old twins, Olivia and Max. Life hasn’t been perfect, but I always tried to hold everything together—or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Jake and I have been married for six years. We met in college—me studying early childhood education, him buried under a pile of computer science projects. Now he works in IT, earns a decent living, and follows the usual dad routine. He comes home around dinner, cracks a few jokes, gives the kids a quick hug, and vanishes into his “man cave” for the evening.
I, on the other hand, have been a stay-at-home mom since the twins were born.
I used to say it was temporary, just until they turned three. But anyone with toddlers knows the truth: it’s a nonstop cycle of mess, exhaustion, and chaos. Going back to work feels like a far-off dream, the kind you daydream about while scrubbing blueberry stains from tiny socks at midnight.
Jake clocks out at 5 p.m. sharp every day. He strolls in, ruffles Max’s hair, says, “Hey, sport,” tosses his backpack on the couch, and disappears behind the door with the glowing blue light of his gaming setup. That’s his private sanctuary.
Meanwhile, I handle everything else: cooking, cleaning, laundry, doctor visits, grocery runs, temper tantrums, diaper blowouts, bedtime stories… I haven’t peed alone since 2021. And yet, somehow, I’m the one who “looks tired,” while Jake is the “hardworking, exhausted hero.”
Everything changed last month.
I remember it perfectly. The twins were napping, and I was folding towels when my phone buzzed. A text from Jake:
“Hey, I invited the guys over tonight. Just a chill beer night. Can you make something decent so I’m not embarrassed?”
No please. No heads-up. Just… a command.
I wanted to fire back, “Make your own dinner!” But I took a deep breath and decided to let him have his little “boys’ night.”
So I went all out. I roasted a chicken from scratch, whipped up garlic mashed potatoes, made two salads, and even set out chips and salsa. By the time the doorbell rang, our house smelled like Thanksgiving.
His friends arrived: Mark, Brian, and the new guy from work, Kyle. I smiled, greeted them politely, and corralled the twins upstairs for bedtime. From the baby monitor, I could hear their laughter, bottles clinking, sports talk, and then… my name.
“So,” Brian asked, “is Anna going back to work soon? You guys thinking about getting help with the kids?”
Jake’s voice came, casual, loud, and completely clueless:
“Man, I hope so. I’m tired of being the ONLY breadwinner here. Maybe we’ll get a babysitter. Hopefully a HOT one, you know? I love aesthetics.”
Laughter exploded. I froze, hands on the baby monitor, face burning. Not angry… yet. Just stunned. Humiliated.
Those words—“Hopefully a hot one. I love aesthetics”—kept looping in my head for days.
A few mornings later, I leaned in as he ate cereal.
“Hey, dear,” I said softly, “I think I’m ready to go back to work.”
His eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “Yeah. The kids are three now. We should start looking for a babysitter.”
His whole face lit up. “You’re okay with that?”
“Of course. Professionalism is important,” I said, smoothing my napkin.
Jake practically bounced. “Great! I’ll help find someone responsible, experienced, and… hot,” he added, grinning.
He had no idea I was already planning a little lesson in humility.
Over the next few days, Jake scoured babysitter websites like a man possessed. Every profile photo was straight out of a yoga magazine. One woman even described herself as “Certified yoga instructor with experience in holistic play and organic meal planning.” Jake sent me a wink emoji:
“She seems qualified 😉”
I smiled. He had no idea.
I made my move last Thursday. I found someone who ticked every box he wanted: smart, dependable… and very, very attractive. But there was a twist Jake didn’t see coming.
I texted him while the twins napped:
“Hey, love! Found someone great. You’ll be happy. The babysitter is exactly your type.”
“Can’t wait to meet her 😏. Only the best for our kids,” he replied instantly.
Heart racing, I smirked. Tomorrow, Jake’s little fantasy was about to backfire.
Jake came home early that day. First clue. He never comes home early unless he’s excited.
Second clue: his cologne. Expensive, date-night level.
I didn’t even look up as he walked in.
“Wow, you look… refreshed,” I said, tossing Max’s socks into the laundry basket.
Jake ran a hand through his hair. “Gotta make a good impression, right? So… when’s she coming?”
I glanced at the clock. “Any minute.”
Doorbell rings. I open it.
And there stands Chris. Tall, athletic, clean-cut, folder in hand, smiling like he belongs on a wholesome TV show.
“Hi! You must be Mr. Daniels. I’m Chris, the babysitter,” he said warmly, offering a hand.
Jake froze. Blinked. His brain sounded like a broken blender.
“Uh… hi?” Jake stammered. “Wait. You’re the babysitter?”
Chris nodded. “Yep. CPR certified, bachelor’s in child development. Excited to help with your wife and kids.”
Jake’s face went from pink to red in seconds. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“Oh honey,” I said, tilting my head, “remember? You said you hoped for a hot babysitter. Didn’t say she had to be a woman.”
Chris grinned politely. “Ah, thank you! I get that a lot.”
Jake could only mumble, “Well… uh, I’m sure you’re great, man… but I don’t think we really need…”
“Oh, we do!” I said cheerfully. “You said it yourself. We need help. And he’s exactly the one we need.”
Jake had no escape.
Chris started the next day. He was amazing. Max latched onto his leg instantly, Olivia made him sit for a tea party, calling him “Mr. Chris.” He cleaned up, read stories, fixed the squeaky cabinet, and even handled bedtime without missing a beat.
I watched Jake that evening, sitting on the couch like a guilty teenager, peeking at the playroom.
“So you’re just going to keep him around?” he asked.
I smiled. “Well… until I find someone hotter.”
His mouth dropped open, and that was the last coherent thing he said all night.
By the end of the week, Jake was changing. He came home early, played with the kids, gave baths, even made real dinners. One night I leaned on the doorframe.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”
He gave me a sheepish grin. “I get it now… I was a world-class jerk. I’m sorry.”
I kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re learning.”
We don’t have a babysitter anymore—not because Chris wasn’t perfect, but because what we really needed was for Jake to see how much I had been carrying, to feel how invisible I’d started to feel, and to understand what it’s like to be taken for granted.
So yes, he joked about wanting a hot babysitter. Now he knows exactly how that feels. And trust me… he’ll never make that joke again.