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As I’m leaving Carol’s office, still crying, Ridge sends me a text telling me he’s at the house with the boys, so I head home.

When I walk through the door, I think I fall in love with Ridge.

I know what you’re thinking. Aly, you’re being awfully dramatic.

I might be, but here’s why. Just listen.

Aside from not showing up at sports events, throwing fits in public and leaving me at the parent coaching, do you want to know what else Austin never did?

Even if you don’t want to know, I’m about to tell you.

He never got me off. Seriously. I had to do it myself. I know what you’re thinking. That’s awful. Right?

Agreed.

But while I’m painting him out to be a real pile of poo, let me tell you the real purpose of where I’m going with this. He never offered or took care of the boys when they were sick.

Not.

Once.

I kid you not. The day I brought them home from the hospital, he sat on the couch and asked me what was for dinner. Should have known then the marriage was going in the shitter.

If there was ever a problem and he was alone with them, he called me, and I had to come straight home to take care of them. Colds, fevers, vomiting, exploding diapers, crying. . . he didn’t do any of that. I’m the mother, that’s my job, right?

Now you know why this man is quite possibly the worst husband in the world and Brie the backstabbing bitch can have him and his assholishness.

Anyway, back to the current moment inside my house tonight.

Do you see the boy standing in the hallway stripped down to his underwear with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders? Not the one holding a bucket wearing jeans and no shirt. I know, they’re identical and hard to tell apart. I’m talking about the other one with the pale skin and flushed cheeks.

Poor kid, right? I know, heartbreaking. He’s clearly sick.

Now, do you see the man—also shirtless–on his hands and knees in the hallway, towels surrounding him and a bottle of bleach in hand?

That’s a man who’s not afraid to take care of a sick kid.

“Dude, if you’re gonna puke, do it in the bucket,” Ridge tells him, spraying him down with bleach. I cringe. Bleach on skin is never a good idea, but I appreciate where he’s going with it. He points the bottle at Grady. “Do you have to puke?”

Grady shakes his head, eyes wide, probably terrified of being quarantined. “I don’t think so.”

Ridge sighs, running his hand across the back of his neck and then sets the bleach on the floor. “All right, um. . .” He pauses, glancing around the hallway and then behind him in the bathroom. “You should take a shower. You stink like vomit.”

Cash nods, his tiny shoulders hunching forward. “O-o-kay.”

My poor little baby boy. He’s clearly sick because getting Cash to shower is like someone agreeing to letting you rip their toenails off.

I close the door, announcing my presence in the house.

Three sets of eyes find mine, all relieved to see me.

“Thank fuck,” Ridge groans, reaching for the bleach bottle again.

“Mommy!” Grady yells, dropping the bucket and barreling down the hall in his bare feet and jeans, no shirt. “Cash is sick.”

“Oh no.” I wrap my arms around Grady, hugging him and then look to Cash who’s now bent over the bucket vomiting again.

Ridge stares at him, then me. He looks defeated but watch what he does next. Your heart’s about to melt.