Chapter 3The Tradwife Trap: My Husband's Secret Playbook

Living with the kids was a nightmare.

I cooked dinner. I turned around for two seconds, and Emma was squatting on the dining table, barefoot, grabbing handfuls of spaghetti with her hands.

"Where's my bowl?" she shrieked. "I'm starving!"

Noah was barking like a dog under the table, waiting for her to drop food.

My temple throbbed.

Jason sat on the couch, watching ESPN, unbothered.

"Are you going to do something?" I asked.

He laughed, not looking away from the TV. "Kids will be kids, babe. I was wild too. Just let them be. If the food's ruined, just make something else. My mom handles them fine."

He wanted me to cook again?

"No."

I grabbed the baby, Lily, and called Noah. "Come here if you want to eat."

Emma rolled her eyes. "I'm not listening to you!"

"Fine," I said.

I took the younger two into the kitchen and fed them the backup casserole.

When Jason finally came looking for dinner half an hour later, clutching his stomach—he has chronic gastritis and needs to eat on time—he found a clean kitchen.

"Babe? Where's dinner?" he asked, sweating slightly from the pain.

I pointed to the dining room table, where the cold, mangled spaghetti lay.

"You said kids will be kids," I said coolly. "Don't waste food. Eat what your daughter left."

"That? That's disgusting! Just whip up some eggs or something."

"Make it yourself," I said, walking away.

He stared at me, stunned.

He didn't know how to cook. He ended up eating a bowl of cereal, glaring at me the whole time.