Julia left me with our newborn baby.
Emily and I had been married for ten years. We worked together in a lab in London, so we spent nearly every waking moment side by side. When she told me she was pregnant, I was over the moon. I’d dreamed of having a child for so long—words couldn’t capture my joy.
But my wife was a true career woman. Motherhood had never been her dream. Emily craved a senior position, financial freedom, prestige. When her pregnancy made her feel unwell, forcing her to step back from the work she loved, she realised—this baby would ruin everything.
Our daughter arrived right on schedule. The moment she was born, Emily was swallowed by postpartum depression. She despised our child. She wanted to leave her at the hospital, erase her from memory. She screamed at the nurses, furious that our daughter had stolen a year of her life, setting her back while the rest of the world moved forward.
Things only got worse. When I was promoted, Emily exploded. She refused to even touch the baby, let alone feed her. I hired a therapist—I knew this wouldn’t end well. The sedatives helped, but only for a while. She accused me of wasting her youth while I climbed the corporate ladder at her expense. Worse—she insisted *she* deserved that role, not me.
When they sent me to Manchester to launch a new branch, I begged her to come with us. She refused. Instead, she filed for divorce and walked out. I moved abroad with my daughter. Eventually, my mother joined us—someone had to look after the baby. Emily returned to her old job. To this day, she’s still trying to prove she’s more deserving of my position.
Yes, she’s brilliant. Ambitious. But family was never her calling. One day, she’ll realise happiness isn’t found in a job title—but by then, it’ll be too late.
