When my husband, Silas, demanded we try for a sixth child “to finally have a son,” I was stunned. We already had five wonderful daughters, and I wasn’t about to be pressured into more pregnancies just to satisfy tradition. His hints about divorce cut deep, but instead of arguing again, I decided to teach him a lesson.
The next morning, I slipped away to my late mom’s country house, leaving Silas home alone with our girls. Through security cameras, I watched the chaos unfold. Breakfast was a disaster—burnt toast, spilled juice, and endless demands for pancakes, eggs, and waffles. Online school was worse; he couldn’t keep anyone focused. By lunch, the house was wrecked, and he was frazzled, begging the kids to cooperate.
Day two broke him. Dressed in a tiara during the girls’ princess game, he finally sent me desperate texts: “Please, my angel, I can’t do this alone.” When I returned, Silas hugged me, apologizing and promising never to push for a son again.
Since then, he’s become more present—helping with homework, bedtime, and even learning to braid hair. Our daughters gained a better dad, and I gained the respect I deserved.
