**Thursday, 12th October**
My husband left for holiday right after I gave birth. And there I was—alone, aching, exhausted, with a newborn in my arms.
Anton and I were a young couple. Married just a year ago, swept up in the rush of first love, naive hopes, and the stubborn belief we could handle anything. I’d only just turned nineteen; he was twenty-one. We made do in a rented flat in Manchester, scrimping for prams and babygrows, counting down the days, convinced a child would bring us closer, stronger. But it didn’t work out that way.
A week ago, I gave birth. A tiny, wrinkling bundle, warm against my chest, who instantly filled my life with sleepless nights, fear, powdered milk, and endless crying. I came home with our son in my arms, my body raw, my legs unsteady, everything trembling. And the next day, my husband announced, perfectly calm:
“I’m flying to Spain tomorrow.”
At first, I didn’t understand. I stared at him and asked, “Where?”
“Got a last-minute deal. Mate from work offered it. Practically free. I’ve been working like a dog all year—I need some sun. You and the baby won’t be doing much anyway. You’ll manage without me.”
He said it so casually, as if he were popping to the shops. Meanwhile, I stood there, rocking our son, in my worn-out maternity clothes, my eyes brimming with disbelief. He’d already decided. No discussion, no question—just a fact dropped at my feet.
“But what about us?” I managed to ask.
“You’ll just be sleeping and feeding. I’ll be back in a week. You’ll cope.”
Those words burned. How could I explain that I wasn’t coping? That every moment was a fight against terror—what if he stops breathing, what if his temperature spikes, what if I’m doing it all wrong? That I’m afraid of silence when I wake, afraid to sleep because I’m drained but can’t rest. That sometimes, all I want is for someone to hand me a glass of water. To ask, “How are you?” To hold me.
But he left. Sent pictures from the beach—him lounging with a cocktail, the sea, the palm trees. Not a word about our son. Not one question: *How are you? What do you need?*
I cried. Silently, so I wouldn’t wake the baby. Mum said, “Be glad he’s away. Your father spent your first birthdays drunk out of his mind. Better he’s there than here drowning in lager.”
My friend tried to console me: “At least you weren’t alone leaving the hospital. No one even came for me. Went home by myself, bags and baby in tow. You’ve got it alright.”
But those words didn’t help. I didn’t feel lucky. I felt abandoned. I didn’t need a holiday or beach photos. I needed his shoulder. His hand. Him.
Maybe one day, I’ll forgive. But forget? Unlikely. Because in the most fragile, terrifying moment of my life, I was left alone. And he chose it.
