A bang on our bedroom door almost makes me regret claiming the thirty-five-year-old punk on the other side of it. “Why am I getting a notice from the depot that I’m on naternity leave for two days? I don’t even work for the depot!” Bellamy calls through the door. I pick up my phone and text him. Me: 1. You realize that I can’t call back through the door, right? 2. Did you just say ‘naternity’? 3. New parents take leave all the time. We just want to make sure you get settled in before we have to go back to work. You were a surprise! We don’t even have a sitter lined up.
