Herbert begged me to give birth, then fled to his mother the moment our son turned three months old.
My name is Eleanor, and even now, the shock lingers. My husband—a man who spoke endlessly of children, who swore love and devotion, who pleaded with me to become a mother—abandoned us just as the true trials of infancy began. And not to some grand adventure, no—he went straight back to his mother’s house. I was left alone with a tiny son, an aching back, and a heart torn to shreds.
Herbert and I married three years ago. At first, our union seemed perfect. We were young, in love, dreaming of the future. But I knew better than to rush into parenthood. We needed steady footing—a proper home, savings, security. I understood the weight of it; I’d helped raise my younger brothers. Herbert, though, was an only child, coddled his whole life, never truly tested.
Then his cousin had a baby, and something in him snapped. After visiting, he’d start the same relentless argument:
“Come now, Eleanor. Isn’t it time? What are we waiting for? Youth makes parenthood easier. If we keep delaying, we’ll be forty before we know it…”
I tried explaining the difference between playing with a child for half an hour and the endless nights of colic, feedings, and sleeplessness. He’d wave me off:
“You make it sound as if we’re raising a hurricane, not a baby.”
Our parents only fanned the flames. Both my mother and his swore they’d help day and night, promising to take the burden if only I’d consent. And so, I did.
During the pregnancy, Herbert was the model husband—carrying bags, cleaning, cooking, attending every scan, pressing his hand to my belly and whispering love to us both. I trusted him. I believed he’d be a good father.
But the fairytale ended the moment we brought our son home. The baby cried. Often. For hours. With reason and without. I shielded Herbert from the worst of the night wakings, but the walls of our tiny terrace house trapped every sound. The kitchen light burned through the night, and I’d watch him toss in bed, hands clamped over his ears, seething.
Bit by bit, his patience frayed. We snapped at each other. He stayed late at work. Then, one evening, when our boy was just three months old, he packed a bag without a word.
“I’m going to stay with Mum. I need proper sleep. I can’t do this. Don’t want a divorce—just rest. I’ll come back when he’s older.”
I stood in the hallway, the baby in my arms, milk heavy in my breasts, and watched him walk away.
The next day, his mother rang. Calm, as if nothing were amiss:
“Eleanor, love, I don’t agree with him, but perhaps it’s for the best. Men aren’t built for infants. I’ll come round to help. Just—don’t be too hard on him.”
Then my own mother called.
“Mum, do you truly think this is right?” I whispered, fighting tears. “He begged for this child. Now he’s left me alone with him. How am I supposed to carry on?”
“Darling, don’t be hasty. Yes, he ran—but not to another woman. Just to his mother. That means he’ll come back. Give him time.”
But I’m not sure I want him back.
He broke me. Betrayed me when I was at my weakest. When I thought only of our son, of us—he gave up and fled. He couldn’t endure even the first months of fatherhood. And now, I don’t know if I could ever trust him again. Lean on him. He wanted this child. He pleaded. And the moment that child arrived, he bolted.
Now it’s all on me—the boy, the house, the exhaustion, the fear. And one thought gnaws at me: if he left me then, what else will he walk away from?
