**Diary Entry**
My husband left for a holiday right after I gave birth. And there I was—alone with the pain, exhaustion, and a tiny baby in my arms.
Anton and I were a young couple. We married a year ago, caught in the rush of first love, naïve dreams, and absolute certainty we could handle anything. I had just turned nineteen, him twenty-one. We scraped by in a rented flat in Manchester, saving for a pram and babygros, counting down the days to the birth, believing a child would bring us closer, stronger, more united. But everything turned out differently.
A week ago, I delivered our son. A small, wrinkled, warm little thing that instantly filled my life with sleepless nights, fears, formula, and cries. I came home with him in my arms, aching all over, barely able to sit, legs shaky, body trembling. And the next day, my husband casually announced:
*”I’m flying to Spain tomorrow.”*
At first, I didn’t understand. I stared at him and asked again:
*”Where are you going?”*
*”Last-minute deal, mate from work sorted it. Cost me practically nothing. Had to take it. Been working like a dog all year, just need a bit of sun. You and the baby won’t be doing much anyway—rest while I’m gone.”*
He said it like he was talking about popping to the shops. Meanwhile, I stood there rocking our son in postpartum underwear, my eyes full of despair. I hadn’t even processed that he’d already decided—no discussion, no asking, just cold, hard fact.
*”What about us?”* I whispered.
*”You’ll be fine. Seven days tops. I’ll come back fresh. You’ll manage.”*
Those words burned. How could I explain that I wasn’t managing? That every second was a fight—what if he isn’t breathing, what if he has a fever, what if I’m doing it all wrong? That I was afraid to wake up in silence and afraid to sleep because exhaustion didn’t mean rest. That all I wanted was 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 a single *”How are you? What do you need?”*
I cried. Silently, so I wouldn’t wake the baby. Mum said,
*”Be glad he’s there. Mine was blind drunk when I was in your shoes. Better off gone than soused on your doorstep.”*
My friend chimed in with her own brand of comfort:
*”At least you weren’t alone coming home from the hospital. I had to take the bus with the baby and my bags. Could’ve been worse.”*
But their words didn’t help. I didn’t feel lucky. I felt betrayed. I didn’t need a holiday or photos of the sea. I needed his shoulder. His hand. Him to care.
Maybe one day I’ll forgive. But forget? Doubt it. Because in the most vulnerable, terrifying moment of my life, I was left alone. And he chose that.
