My husband booked himself a first-class seat and shoved me into the last row with our triplets — before the plane even leveled off, he was back at my side, ash-gray and shaking, whispering, "How could you do this to me?"

My husband booked himself a business-class seat and sent me to economy with our triplets — 10 minutes after takeoff, he came rushing back, white as a sheet, and hissed, "How could you do this to me?"

After the triplets were born, I forgot what a full night of sleep felt like.

Grant, somehow, had decided he was the one running on empty.

"The crying is wrecking me, Nora," he'd say, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man twice his age. "I mean it. I need to get away. Somewhere with an ocean."

When he said "I," he meant it literally. There was no "we" anywhere in the picture he kept painting.

Grant changed a diaper maybe once a week. He had never been alone with all three babies for longer than it took me to run to the pharmacy and back.

I said yes anyway.

I had savings from before the wedding — money I'd built up one paycheck at a time, back when it was only me to look after. Grant swore he'd pay back every cent the moment his annual bonus landed.

Then the price kept climbing.

Airfare. The resort. Car service to and from the airport.

Every time I flagged another charge, he waved his hand at me like I was a fly at a picnic.

"Trips cost money, Nora. Quit counting pennies. It's embarrassing."

By the morning we got to the airport, I was already worn down to the bone. Three car seats, three diaper bags, a double stroller, and a toddler riding my hip. Grant walked ten feet ahead of us with one rolling suitcase and his phone.

I didn't understand that something was actually wrong until we lined up to board and I looked down at the boarding passes fanned out in my hand.

Mine said ECONOMY.

So did all three of the babies'.

Then I turned over Grant's pass.

Business class.

I stood there reading it a few times, certain the gate agent had printed something backward.

"There's a mistake here," I said.

Grant plucked the pass out of my fingers, glanced at it, and the corner of his mouth curled up.

"No mistake."

Something in my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

"You're going to sit up front while I wrestle three one-year-olds by myself for four hours?"

"I need a real vacation," he said, the way you'd explain something obvious to a slow child. "You're their mother. They're your job. Not mine."

I actually thought I'd misheard him. Then he bent down close to my ear.

"And don't make a scene when we get to the resort. I moved myself to the oceanfront suite. You and the kids are in a standard room. I'm not paying a damage deposit so they can destroy nice furniture."

"Grant. I'm the one paying for this entire trip."

He rolled his eyes so hard his whole head moved with them.

"And I could've come without you. Remember that."

Then he stepped through the curtain into business class and was gone.

There wasn't a single open seat anywhere near me. One baby started crying before we even pushed back from the gate. Another launched her pacifier under the seat in front of us. The third wrapped a fist in my hair and pulled while I was still trying to shove three bags, four bottles, and two blankets into a space built for one carry-on.

Then, as I opened our reservation on my phone to check the resort address, I noticed something.

A small line of text tucked under Grant's hotel booking and our return flight.

Something he clearly hadn't read when he used my money to build his "vacation."

I read it twice.

And for the first time all morning, I smiled.

Ten minutes after takeoff, the curtain at the front of the cabin flew open.

Grant stumbled into economy, every drop of color gone from his face.