“I want to lie down—looking after the kids is women’s work!” declared my husband, 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 pure madness. I’d drag myself home, completely drained, only to start my second shift—homework, dinners, checking school planners.
I was the brains behind this whole operation, codenamed “Family Holiday.” I found the hotel, snatched up the bargain flights, packed three suitcases, and even remembered our six-year-old son’s favourite teddy bear and our nine-year-old daughter’s power bank for her tablet.
And then we arrived. Sun, sea, the kids squealing with excitement. You’d think—this is it, happiness at last, time to relax. But my husband, Edward, had other ideas.
With the air of a conqueror, he flopped onto a sun lounger, slapped on his sunglasses, glued himself to his phone, and slipped into hibernation mode. His only movement was the occasional flip to even out his tan.
Meanwhile, the kids—bless their boundless energy—had a never-ending stream of “Mum, get this,” “Mum, let’s go,” “Mum, look at this!” Edward pretended he was off-duty. By day two, I realised my holiday had turned into a remote work assignment—just with more sweat.
Then, one afternoon, I spotted a spa brochure on the hotel noticeboard. “Two hours of pure bliss: chocolate wrap and relaxation massage.” Girls, I nearly melted just reading it. I could *smell* the cocoa. That was my sign—I *deserved* this.
I tiptoed over to my peacefully dozing husband and asked, ever so sweetly, “Eddie, could you watch the kids for a bit? I’d *love* a massage. Just keep an eye on them?”
He cracked one eye open and hit me with a line that chilled me to the bone.
“Emma, seriously? Kids are *your* department! I’ve slogged all year for this break. I just want to lie here in peace.”
And with that, he shut his eyes again, effectively ending the conversation.
Hurt? You bet. I’d worked myself ragged all year too! I stood there, a volcanic wave of fury bubbling inside me—white-hot, explosive, unstoppable. But I didn’t scream, flail, or cry. What was the point? Words wouldn’t fix this.
Then I spotted the hotel’s entertainment crew—colorful pirate costumes, bandanas, ear-to-ear grins. And *that’s* when inspiration struck—a little cheeky, a tad audacious, but entirely deserved.
With my most angelic smile, I sidled up to them. “Hello, lads! Fancy a bit of fun? See that man on the lounger? That’s my husband. Today’s his unofficial ‘Captain’s Day’—he’s got the soul of a seafarer, but he’s terribly shy.” The lie rolled off my tongue without a blush.
One animator’s eyes gleamed as I slipped him a crisp £20 note. “Leave it to us!” he saluted. “Your captain’s about to have his moment!”
I retreated, feeling like a master tactician, and braced for the show.
Minutes later, a boisterous pirate crew descended upon Edward’s sunbed. One grabbed a microphone and bellowed, “Attention, everyone! We’ve found our bravest, cleverest captain—meet *Captain Edward*!”
Chaos erupted. Edward shot up, eyes popping, muttering confused protests. Our kids, Sophie and Alfie, shrieked, “Dad’s the captain!” and shoved a pirate hat onto his head. He flailed, insisting it was a mistake, but the animator winked at me, clapped him on the back, and cheered, “Onward, Captain! Treasure awaits!”
Humiliation or not, he had no choice.
Meanwhile, I was already wrapped in a fluffy spa robe, waving sweetly as I vanished into a world of chocolate and serenity.
Edward dutifully played his role—solved riddles, hunted treasure, returned sweaty but grinning, surrounded by adoring kids.
That evening, I innocently asked, “So, Captain, how was your voyage?” He grumbled, but when I ruffled his hair and whispered, “You’re the best. Look how much the kids adore you,” something shifted.
He glanced at the kids arranging seashells on the bed, then at me—and finally smiled. “Ah, well. Just a bit of fun.”
But his eyes sparkled—warm, genuine. For the rest of the holiday, he helped without being asked, as if someone had peeled off his armour.
Sometimes, a man just needs a treasure map, a pirate hat, and a gentle nudge in the right direction—lovingly, of course.
