Oh wow, let me tell you about this absolute nightmare. My name’s Emily, and honestly, I still can’t get my head around it. My husband, the man who begged me to have a baby, who swore he’d be there for me—just upped and left when our son was barely three months old. And where’d he go? Straight back to his mum’s place. Meanwhile, there I was—alone with a tiny baby, my back killing me, and my heart in pieces.
Me and Peter got married three years ago. At first, everything seemed perfect. We were young, madly in love, dreaming about the future. But I always knew—kids aren’t something you rush into. We needed to get on our feet, buy a proper house, save up some money first. I understood that because I’ve got younger brothers, and trust me, I knew exactly how exhausting it is to look after a baby 24/7. Peter, though? Only child, always been coddled. Never had to deal with anything truly hard in his life.
Then his cousin had a baby, and suddenly, Peter lost his mind. After visiting them, he’d start the same conversation every time:
“Come on, Em, let’s do it already! Why keep waiting? It’s easier when you’re young. If we keep ‘preparing,’ we’ll be forty by the time we even start!”
I tried explaining—there’s a world of difference between playing with a baby for half an hour and actually raising one. The sleepless nights, the colic feeds, the constant rocking. But he’d just wave me off:
“You make it sound like we’re signing up for a natural disaster!”
Our parents didn’t help either. My mum and his mum were both at it, promising they’d help all the time, saying they’d take over—just have the baby already. So I caved.
During the pregnancy, Peter was the perfect husband. Carried the shopping, cleaned up, cooked, came to every scan, even whispered to my bump about how much he loved us both. I really thought he’d be a great dad.
But the fairytale ended the second we got home from the hospital. Our son cried. A lot. For no reason, for every reason. I tried to shield Peter from the worst of the nights, but our little one woke up every two hours. I’d pace the flat, rocking him, singing lullabies—but in a tiny two-bed, there’s no escaping the sound. The kitchen light stayed on all night, and I could see Peter tossing in bed, covering his ears, getting more and more frustrated.
Slowly, he just… snapped. We started arguing, shouting. He stayed late at work more often. Then one evening, when our son was exactly three months old, he silently packed a bag.
“I’m moving in with Mum. I need sleep. I can’t do this. Don’t want a divorce, I’m just exhausted. I’ll come back when he’s older.”
And just like that, he walked out. Left me standing in the hallway with a baby in my arms and milk leaking through my top.
The next day, his mum rang. Calm as anything, like this was totally normal:
“Emily, love, I don’t agree with Peter, but better this than him losing it completely. Men just aren’t built for newborns. I’ll pop round and help, yeah? Just don’t be too hard on him.”
Then my mum called.
“Mum, do you actually think this is okay?” I asked, barely holding back tears. “He’s the one who begged for this. Now he’s left me to do it alone. How am I supposed to cope?”
“Sweetheart, don’t go burning bridges. Yes, he ran off—but not to another woman, just to his mum. That means there’s hope. Give him time. He’ll come back.”
Thing is, I’m not sure I want him to.
He broke me. Betrayed me at the most vulnerable point in my life. While I was giving everything to our son, to *us*—he quit. Couldn’t even handle the first few months of being a dad. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever trust him again. Rely on him. Because *he* wanted this. *He* pushed for it. Then the second that baby came, he bolted.
Now it’s all on me. Our son, the house, the exhaustion, the fear. And one thought won’t leave me alone—if he walked away at the hardest moment… what else will he walk away from?
