My wife left me and our newborn baby.
Natasha and I had been married for ten years. We worked together in a laboratory, spending most of our time side by side. When she told me she was pregnant, I was over the moon. I had always dreamed of having a child, so words couldn’t describe my joy.
But my wife was a true career woman. She never yearned for motherhood—her ambitions lay in climbing the corporate ladder and securing financial success. When pregnancy made her feel unwell, she had to step back from the work she loved. That’s when it hit her: a child would be the end of her career.
Our little girl arrived right on time. Natasha was immediately consumed by postnatal depression. She resented the baby, even wanting to leave her at the hospital and pretend she never existed. She screamed at the entire maternity ward, blaming our daughter for wasting a year of her life and stalling her progress.
As they say, things only got worse. When I was promoted at work, she flew into a rage. She refused to go near our daughter, not even to feed her. I had to hire a therapist, knowing things wouldn’t end well. The sedatives helped, but only briefly. Natasha accused me of stealing her youth while I advanced in my career at her expense. Worse still, she insisted the promotion should have been hers, not mine.
When I was sent to Frankfurt to oversee a new branch, I suggested we all move together. She refused. Natasha filed for divorce and walked out. I took our daughter abroad, and soon after, my mother joined us to help care for the baby. Natasha went back to her old job and still spends every day trying to prove she deserved my position instead.
Yes, she’s brilliant and driven—but family was never her calling. One day, she’ll realise happiness isn’t found in a career. But by then, it’ll be too late.
