I had retreated to a place he could not follow.
After a while, I'd been craving something different—something that didn't feel like silence or resentment or walking on eggshells. Not just a change of scenery, but something in me. Something I could control.
So, one morning after another long, silent breakfast with Thomas and the kids, while the coffee was still too hot to sip and the ache behind my eyes felt permanent, I made the call. Enrolled Lola in daycare—just for a few days a week. Enough to give myself a window of space. Enough to make it to the gym without racing the clock. Enough to be... a person again.
Thomas didn't find out until the night before her first day. I was folding laundry on the couch when he came in, holding the little daycare info sheet in his hand like it was a parking ticket.
"Where is this coming from?" he asked, voice laced with confusion and something else. Disapproval. "You've never put the kids in daycare before."
I didn't look up. "I know."
He stared at me for a beat, waiting for more. "Why now? Is everything okay with Lola?"
"She's fine," I said, still folding. "I just need a few mornings to myself."
He blinked. "Why didn't we talk about this?"
I finally looked up at him. "Because I wasn't asking."
That stunned him. I could see it in the way his jaw flexed, how he blinked like someone had just thrown cold water on him.
"I could take her to my mom's," he offered quickly, like he needed to fix it. "She's retired now. She'd love it. And it'd save us money."
 "She's getting older," I replied evenly. "And a baby is a lot of work. It's not fair to put that on her."
He wasn't convinced. I could see the arguments forming behind his eyes, ready to spill. But I wasn't in the mood for a debate. Not this time.
"I'll pay for it myself," I added.
His eyes widened. "What?"
"I'll cover it. Don't worry."
His voice rose, hurt more than angry. "October, I provide for this family. I'm your husband. I'm their father. What does that even mean, you'll pay for it?"
"It means," I said quietly, folding the last shirt, "that I'm doing this for me. And I don't need permission."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He didn't say anything else. Just stood there for a long second like he didn't recognize the woman in front of him anymore.
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed before the sun rose. The house was quiet in that heavy way it gets when everyone's asleep, and I stood there for a second, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I was even doing. Then I moved. Because I had to.
I pulled on old leggings, the kind with a faint bleach stain on the thigh, and tied my hair up in a knot that screamed I don't care—which wasn't true, but close enough. My reflection looked tired. Stretched thin. But I ignored her.
By the time I dropped the kids off—Jimmy at school, Alice at kindergarten, Lola at daycare—I felt like I'd already lived a full day. A thousand tiny decisions. Wipes, buckles, zippers, forgotten snacks, last-minute hugs.
And then I had five minutes. Just five minutes to sit in the driver's seat, head against the wheel, breathing like I might cry or scream or both. I needed support—and for once, I didn't try to carry it all alone. I was proud of myself for reaching out.