**Diary Entry**
My husband left for a beach holiday right after I gave birth. And there I was—alone, in pain, exhausted, with a newborn in my arms.
Anton and I had been a young couple, married just a year ago, swept up in the rush of first love, naive dreams, and absolute certainty we could handle anything. I’d just turned nineteen; he was twenty-one. We scraped by in a rented flat in Manchester, saving up for prams and baby grows, counting down the days until our baby arrived, convinced parenthood would make us stronger, closer. But things turned out differently.
A week ago, I gave birth. A tiny, wrinkled, warm little thing who immediately filled my life with sleepless nights, constant worry, formula milk, and crying. I came home with my son in my arms, aching all over, barely able to sit properly, legs weak, body trembling. And the next day, my husband casually said, “I’m flying to Spain tomorrow.”
At first, I didn’t understand. I stared at him. “Where are you going?”
“It’s a last-minute deal,” he said. “Pete from work offered it—practically pocket money. Couldn’t pass it up. I’ve been slaving away all year, deserve a bit of sun. You and the baby won’t be doing much anyway—rest up without me.”
He said it so casually, like he was popping to the shops. Meanwhile, I stood there rocking our son, still in my maternity clothes, my eyes full of despair. I hadn’t even processed what was happening—he’d already decided everything. No discussion, no asking me, just announced it like it was nothing.
“But what about us?” I managed to ask.
“You’ll just be sleeping and feeding, won’t you? I’ll only be gone a week. Quick break, then back. You’ll cope.”
Those words burned. How could I explain that I wasn’t coping? That every second was a battle—what if he stops breathing, what if he’s feverish, what if I’m doing it all wrong? That I was terrified of silence but even more afraid to sleep because exhaustion and anxiety wouldn’t let me. That all I wanted was someone to hand me a glass of water, to ask, “How are you?” To hold me.
But he left. He sent photos from the beach—lounging with a cocktail, turquoise sea, swaying palms. Nothing about our son. No questions: How are you? What do you need?
I cried. Silently, so I wouldn’t wake the baby.
Mum said, “Be glad he’s gone. Mine used to drink himself unconscious around this time. At least yours is off somewhere sunny instead.”
My friend tried to comfort me too: “At least you didn’t leave the hospital alone. No one even came to pick me up—just me, my bags, and a newborn on the bus. You’ve got it better than most.”
But it didn’t help. I didn’t feel lucky. I felt abandoned. I didn’t need a holiday deal or beach photos. I needed his shoulder. His hand. For him to care.
Maybe one day I’ll forgive. But forgetting? Doubtful. Because when I was most vulnerable, when life was its hardest and scariest, I was left entirely alone. And that was his choice.
**Lesson:** Pain teaches you who stays. And sometimes, the person who should, doesn’t.
