My husband flew off to the seaside right after I gave birth. And I was left alone—with the pain, exhaustion, and a newborn in my arms.
Anton and I were a young couple. We married a year ago, swept up in first love, naive dreams, and absolute confidence that we could handle anything. I’d just turned nineteen, he was twenty-one. We got by as best we could—in a rented flat in Manchester, saving up for a pram and babygros, counting down the days until the birth, convinced our child would bring us closer, make us stronger. But it didn’t work out that way.
A week ago, I had the baby. A tiny, wrinkled, warm little thing that instantly filled my life with sleepless nights, fear, formula, and crying. I came home with my son in my arms, aching all over, barely able to sit properly, legs buckling, 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,
“Where are you going?”
“It’s a last-minute deal, Dave from work sorted it. Pence on the pound, practically free. Had to take it. Been grafting like a dog all year—just need a bit of sun. You and the baby aren’t exactly on the move yet anyway. You’ll manage fine without me.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was just popping to the shops. Meanwhile, I stood there, rocking the baby, in my postnatal underwear, eyes full of despair. I didn’t even have time to process that he’d already made up his mind. No asking, no discussion—just dropped it on me.
“But what about us?” I asked.
“You’ll just be sleeping and eating for now anyway. I’ll be quick—just a week. I’ll come back fresh. Don’t worry, you’ll cope.”
Those words burned. I didn’t know how to explain that I wasn’t coping. That every second was a fight—what if he stops breathing, what if he gets a fever, what if I’m doing it all wrong? That I’m scared to wake up to silence, and scared to fall asleep because I’m drained but can’t rest. That I just want someone to hand me a glass of water. Ask, “How are you?” Hug me.
And he—he just left. Sent photos from the beach: him on a sun lounger with a cocktail, the sea, the palm trees. Not a single word about our son. Not once did he ask: How are you? What do you need?
I cried. Silently, so I wouldn’t wake the baby. Mum said,
“Be glad he’s over there. Mine was half-cut by noon on a good day. Better he’s there than here drinking the place dry.”
My mate tried to cheer me up in her own way.
“At least you weren’t on your own leaving the hospital. No one even turned up for me. Had to get myself and the baby home alone, bags and all. You’re doing alright.”
But it didn’t help. I didn’t feel lucky. I felt betrayed. I didn’t need a holiday or pictures of the sea. I needed his shoulder. His hand. His presence.
And maybe one day I’ll forgive. But I’ll never forget. Because in the most vulnerable, terrifying, hardest moment of my life, I was alone. And he chose that.
