My husband was all smiles when the new babysitter showed up — that is, until he realized exactly who was standing at the door. What he didn’t know was that I had planned every single second of this, and his little joke was about to backfire in the most perfect way.
Hi, I’m Anna. I’m 32, and until recently, I thought my life was normal. I live in a quiet suburb in Illinois with my husband, Jake, and our three-year-old twins, Olivia and Max. Life hasn’t been perfect, but I always believed I was holding everything together. At least… that’s what I thought.
Jake and I have been married six years. We met in college—me studying early childhood education, him buried in computer science projects. Now, he works in IT, earns a decent living, and follows the typical dad routine: home around dinnertime, cracks a few jokes, hugs the kids, and then disappears into his man cave, glowing blue screens lighting up his sanctuary.
Meanwhile, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom since the twins were born. I used to tell myself it was temporary, just until they turned three. But anyone who’s raised toddlers knows the truth: it’s nonstop chaos. Beauty, exhaustion, and chaos all tangled together. Going back to work felt like a far-off fantasy—the kind you daydream about while scrubbing blueberry stains from tiny socks at midnight.
Jake clocks out at 5 p.m. sharp. He strolls in, ruffles Max’s hair, tosses his backpack on the couch, and vanishes behind the door that screams Do Not Disturb.
I handle everything else—cooking, cleaning, laundry, preschool forms, grocery runs, tantrums, bedtime stories. I haven’t peed alone since 2021. And yet, somehow, I’m the one who “looks tired” or “needs to put more effort in,” while Jake is “exhausted from work.”
Then came last month.
I remember it clearly. The twins were napping, and I was folding yet another mountain of towels when my phone buzzed. A text from Jake:
“Hey, I invited the guys over tonight. Just a chill beer night. Can you make something decent so I’m not embarrassed?”
No please. No heads-up. Just a demand like I was his assistant, not his wife.
I stared at it for a long second. My first thought: “Make your own freaking dinner.”
But I breathed and let it go. Fine. Let him have his “boys’ night.”
I roasted a whole chicken—not the store-bought rotisserie, the real kind, with garlic, rosemary, and lemon. Mashed potatoes from scratch. Two salads. Chips and salsa. By the time the doorbell rang, the whole house smelled like Thanksgiving.
Jake’s friends arrived—Mark, Brian, and the new guy, Kyle. I smiled, greeted them politely, and scooped up Max, who was mid-tantrum. Upstairs for bedtime we went.
From the baby monitor in the kitchen, I could hear their voices drifting in and out: laughter, bottles clinking, sports talk, and a few dumb jokes. Then, I heard it:
“So,” someone—Brian, I think—said, “is Anna going back to work soon? Are you guys thinking about getting help with the kids?”
Jake’s voice answered, casual and loud:
“Man, I hope so. I’m tired of being the ONLY breadwinner here. Maybe we’ll get a babysitter. Hopefully a HOT one, you know? I love aesthetics.”
Laughter erupted. The kind that hits your ears and burns your cheeks. Jake laughed too.
I froze, hands on the baby monitor. My chest tightened. Humiliation mixed with shock. “Hopefully a hot one. I love aesthetics.” His words looped in my head like a broken record.
A few days later, I set my plan in motion.
While he was munching cereal, I leaned in. “Hey, dear,” I said casually, “I’ve been thinking… I feel ready to go back to work.”
Jake’s eyes went wide mid-bite. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “The kids are three. It’s time. We should find a babysitter, so the kids feel comfortable.”
His face lit up. “You’re really okay with that?”
“Oh yeah,” I said sweetly. “It’ll be good for me—and we’ll finally get some help around here.”
Jake practically bounced. “Great! I’ll help you find someone. Responsible, experienced, professional.”
I smiled and sipped my coffee. “Professionalism is important, yes.”
Over the next few days, Jake was suspiciously helpful. He scrolled babysitting sites like it was a hobby, texting me “options” constantly. Every profile looked like a yoga magazine cover. One read: “Certified yoga instructor, holistic play, organic meal planning.”
He sent it to me with a wink emoji: “She seems qualified 😉.”
I typed back, “Oh yes. Very… experienced.”
Jake had no idea. He was setting himself up for the perfect surprise.
Last Thursday, while he was at work, I made a few calls and found someone who checked every box he wanted: beautiful, smart, dependable. But there was a twist he never saw coming.
By afternoon, I texted him:
“Hey, love! I found someone great! The babysitter is exactly your type.”
Instant reply: “Can’t wait to meet her 😏. Only the best for our kids.”
I smiled tight-lipped. Heart pounding.
Jake came home early that day. First clue. He never comes early unless it’s important… or he’s excited.
I was folding laundry while stopping Olivia from coloring the walls. Garage door opened. Clue two: his cologne—strong, expensive, “date night” cologne.
I didn’t even look up. “Wow, you look… refreshed,” I said, tossing Max’s socks.
Jake ran a hand through his hair. “Gotta make a good impression, right? When’s she coming?”
I checked the microwave clock. “Any minute now.”
He was in his nice shirt, deep blue, not his saggy jeans, not his gaming tee. He was trying. Hard.
Doorbell rang. I set down laundry. “Ready to meet the new babysitter?”
Jake clapped like he was greeting royalty. “Absolutely.”
I opened the door with practiced grace.
Standing there was Chris. Tall, athletic, clean-cut, warm smile, folder of references in hand. He looked like he belonged in a wholesome TV drama: all-American, loves puppies, excellent with kids.
“Hi! You must be Mr. Daniels. I’m Chris, the babysitter,” he said cheerfully.
Jake blinked, confused. “Uh… hi? Wait… you’re the babysitter?”
Chris nodded. “Yep. CPR certified, child development degree, coached Little League. Can’t wait to work with your wife and kids.”
Jake froze. Pink face, mouth twitching.
“Oh, honey,” I said, smiling, “remember? You said you hoped for a hot babysitter. I just didn’t realize you meant a woman.”
Chris grinned. “Ah, thank you! I get that a lot.”
Jake stumbled. “Well… uh… I’m sure you’re great, man, but I don’t think we need…”
“Oh, but we do!” I interrupted cheerfully. “You said we need help. And he’s perfect. You don’t mind, do you?”
Jake: stuck.
“No, no… of course not,” he muttered.
“Wonderful!” I clapped. “Chris, can you start tomorrow? Kids nap at one.”
“Absolutely,” Chris said politely.
Chris fit right in. Max latched onto him instantly. Olivia made him sit for tea parties. He cooked, cleaned, read stories, fixed squeaky hinges Jake had ignored for three months.
Jake watched quietly, glued to the couch, sneaking peeks. When Chris left, he looked at me, stunned.
“So… you’re just going to keep him around?”
“Until I find someone hotter,” I said with a grin.
He had no words.
By the next week, Jake changed. Came home earlier. Played with the kids. Built forts. Gave baths. Even cooked real meals.
One night, I leaned on the doorframe. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”
Sheepish grin. “I get it now… I was a world-class jerk. I’m sorry.”
I kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re learning.”
We don’t have a babysitter anymore—not because Chris wasn’t perfect, but because what we really needed was for Jake to see everything I’ve been carrying. To realize how invisible I’d felt, how easy it is to take someone for granted.
So yes, Jake joked about wanting a hot babysitter. Now he knows exactly what that feels like. And trust me… he’ll never make that joke again.