When I went on maternity leave after our second child was born, I imagined the adjustment would be mostly about learning how to balance two little humans instead of one. I did not anticipate that I would also have to quietly defend the invisible labor that filled every minute of my day. My husband never meant to be cruel, at least not intentionally, but he had a habit of joking that I was “on vacation” while he was at work. He would say it with a grin as he loosened his tie, glancing around at the toys on the floor and the half-folded laundry basket like they were minor details in an otherwise restful day.

“Must be nice,” he would tease. “Just hanging out at home in pajamas.” At first, I laughed along because I was too tired to argue. Then the comments became more frequent. When I mentioned how exhausted I felt, he’d respond with something like, “From what? The couch?” It wasn’t malicious. It was ignorance. He genuinely believed that being home with two small children was softer, slower, easier than navigating office meetings and deadlines. He saw me physically present in the house and equated that with rest.