“I want to lie down—looking after the kids is a woman’s job!” the man declared, shutting his eyes. But within two hours, he deeply regretted those words.
Picture this: I’d been counting down to this holiday in Spain like it was manna from heaven. The last six months at work had been madness. I’d drag myself home, wrung out like a dishcloth, only to start my second shift—homework, dinners, school diaries.
I was the mastermind behind it all. I found the hotel, snatched the last-minute flights, packed three suitcases without forgetting our six-year-old son’s stuffed bear or our nine-year-old daughter’s tablet charger. Operation “Family Holiday” ran on my brainpower alone.
And then—there we were. Sea, sun, the kids squealing with delight. You’d think I could finally breathe. But my husband, William, had other ideas.
With the air of a conquering hero, he collapsed onto a sun lounger, slapped on his sunglasses, and buried himself in his phone, sinking into a blissful coma. His only movement? The occasional roll to even out his tan.
The kids, of course, were a tornado of energy. Every “Mum, can I—?” “Mum, let’s—!” “Mum, look!” was aimed squarely at me. William played deaf. By day two, I realised my holiday had become a work trip—just with better weather.
Then, I spotted a spa brochure. “Two hours of paradise: chocolate body wrap and deep-tissue massage.” Ladies, I nearly wept. I could already smell the cocoa. This was fate. I *deserved* this.
I approached my dozing husband, sweet as honey. “Will, could you watch the kids for a bit? I’d love a massage. Just keep an eye on them.”
He cracked one lazy eye and dropped the bomb. “Olivia, seriously? Kid duty’s *your* job. I’ve slogged all year for this break. Let me relax.”
And with that, he shut his eyes again—conversation over.
Hurt? Furious. *I’d* worked myself ragged too. I stood there, lava-hot rage bubbling under my skin. But screaming wouldn’t help. Then—I spotted the hotel’s pirate-themed entertainers. Grinning, bandana-clad, mischief in their eyes. And *click*—the perfect revenge took shape.
With my best angelic smile, I sidled up to them. “Excuse me—see that man on the lounger? My husband. Today’s his *unofficial* Captain’s Day. He’s a born leader… just painfully shy.” The lie slid out smoothly. For good measure, I slipped one a crisp £20 note. His eyes lit up. “Leave it to us!” he saluted.
Minutes later, a booming announcement echoed across the pool: “Attention! We’ve found our fearless captain—William, dad of the year!”
Chaos. William jolted awake, wild-eyed, stammering protests. Our kids, Emily and Harry, shrieked with glee, cramming a bandana onto his head. He flailed, but the pirates had him surrounded. “No time, Captain! The treasure won’t wait!”
And me? Already wrapped in a spa robe, blowing him a kiss as the doors swung shut behind me. Chocolate-scented bliss awaited.
William *earned* that treasure hunt—sweating through riddles, chased by giggling kids. He returned exhausted, sunburnt, but oddly… happy. That evening, I innocently asked, “Rough seas, Captain?”
He grumbled. I smoothed his ruffled hair. “You’re brilliant, you know. Look how they adore you.”
His gaze flicked to the kids arranging seashells on the bed. Then—a real smile. “Ah, well. Just playing along.”
But something had shifted. For the rest of the trip, he *helped*. No reminders. No sighs. Just… present.
Turns out, sometimes a man just needs a bandana, a treasure map, and a gentle nudge—delivered with love.
