“I Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Left Three months – that’s how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights with baby Max screaming so loud the neighbours banged on the walls. Three months of Marina stumbling around like a zombie, red-eyed and shaky-handed. And Igor would stalk through the flat, grim as a raincloud. “Can you imagine how I look at work? Like a tramp,” he threw out once, scrutinising himself in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina stayed silent. Feeding, rocking, feeding again. An endless cycle. And somewhere nearby, Igor – her husband – moaning instead of helping. “You know, maybe your mum could come over?” he suggested one evening, stretching after his shower, fresh and rested. “I was thinking, I might pop down to my mate’s place in the countryside for a week?” Marina froze mid-bottle. “I need a break, Marina. Seriously.” Igor started packing his gym bag. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages.” And she has? Her eyelids stick together, but as soon as she lies down, Max starts crying again. For the fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “I get it’s hard,” he waved off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. “But my job’s important, lots of responsibility. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Then something strange happened. Marina suddenly saw them from the outside: her, in a grubby dressing gown, wild hair, baby screaming in her arms; Igor, packing his case, bolting away. “I want to live for myself and finally get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not even looking her way. The door slammed. Marina stood in the middle of the flat with her crying son and felt everything inside crumble. A week passed. Then another. Igor rang a handful of times, asking how things were. His voice distant, like talking to someone he barely knew. “I’ll be back at the weekend.” He didn’t come. “Definitely tomorrow.” Again, nothing. Marina rocked the screaming baby, changed nappies, mixed formula. Snatched half-hour naps between feeds. “You’re doing alright?” asked her mate. “Brilliant,” she lied. Why does she lie? She’s ashamed. Ashamed her husband left. That she’s alone with a baby. You’d think it couldn’t get worse. But it got more interesting at the shop—she bumped into Igor’s colleague. “Where’s your hubby?” Lena asked. “Busy with work.” “I see. Men are all the same—start working overtime as soon as kids arrive.” Lena leaned in: “Does Igor go on business trips often?” “What trips?” “He just went up to Manchester for that seminar! Showed us pictures.” Manchester? When? Marina remembered: last week, Igor hadn’t called for three days. Said he was ‘busy’. Lied, wasn’t busy—he was in Manchester. Igor showed up on Saturday, with flowers. “Sorry I’ve been gone so long. Lot of work.” “Went to Manchester, did you?” He froze with the bouquet. “Who told you?” “Doesn’t matter. What matters is, why are you lying?” “I’m not. Just thought you’d be upset I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere. “Igor, I need help. Do you understand? I haven’t slept for weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what? You don’t give me any money.” “What do you mean? I pay the mortgage, the bills…” “And food? Nappies? Medicine?” He went quiet. Then: “Maybe you should go back to work? Even part-time? Why stay at home? We’ll get a nanny.” Staying home, as if it’s a holiday! At that, Marina picked up her son, looked at Igor, and realised: this man doesn’t love her. Not at all. He never did. “Get out.” “Where to?” “Out. And don’t come back till you decide what matters: family or ‘freedom.'” Igor grabbed his keys and left. For two days. Then he texted: “Thinking.” Marina didn’t sleep. She thought too. Imagine being alone with your thoughts for the first time in months. Her mum rang: “How’re you doing, Marina? Igor not home?” “He’s away for work.” Lied. Again. “Shall I come help?” “I’ll manage.” But that wasn’t it. Her mum came anyway. “What’s going on here?” she looked around. “Good grief, Marina, look at yourself!” Marina looked in the mirror. Rough shape. “And Igor?” “Working.” “At eight in the evening?” Marina was silent. “What’s happening?” Marina started crying. Loud, like a child. Desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Her mum stayed quiet. Then: “Bastard. Absolute bastard.” Marina was shocked. Her mother never used foul language. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this much?” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I should have understood?” “Is it hard for you, Marina?” At that bluntness, Marina realised: she’d only ever thought about Igor. His tiredness, his comfort. About herself—not a word. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.” Igor came back Saturday. Tanned, clearly ‘thinking’ at the cottage. “Can we talk?” “Yes.” They sat at the table. “Marina, I get it’s hard for you. But it’s tough for me too. Maybe we agree? I’ll help with money, visit. But for now I’ll live separately.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, a couple hundred quid?” Two hundred pounds. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. And don’t come back.” “Marina, I’m making an offer here!” “Offer? Want your freedom? What about mine?” Then Igor said the line that made everything clear: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mum!” Marina looked at him: there he was, the real Igor. Infantile, selfish—thinks motherhood is a prison sentence. “I’ll apply for support. A quarter of your salary. By law.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I will.” He left, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt like she could breathe. Max cried. But now she knew: she would cope. A year passed. Igor tried to come back twice. “Marina, let’s try again?” “Too late.” Igor spread rumours Marina was cold-hearted. Unconvincing. Marina found a nanny, got a job as a nurse. At work, she met Dr Andrew. “Do you have kids?” “A son.” “And his dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought Max a toy car. They played and laughed together. Soon, they often walked together in the park. Igor found out. Called up: “The boy’s only one, and you’re already with another man!” “What did you expect? For me to sit around waiting for you?” “But you’re a mum!” “Yes, I am. So?” He stopped calling. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he showed up straight away. When Marina was exhausted, he took them to his country house. Now Max is two. Calls Andrew ‘Uncle.’ Doesn’t remember Igor. Igor remarried. Pays support. Marina doesn’t hold a grudge. Now she’s living for herself, too. And it’s wonderful.

I just want to live for myself and finally get some sleep, my husband announced as he left.

Three months thats how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, while little Benjamin screamed so loud the neighbours banged on the wall. Three months of Sophie wandering about like a zombie, eyes red and hands shaking.

And James, my husband, strode about the flat glumly, like a raincloud ready to burst.

Can you imagine how scruffy I look at work? he snapped one morning, inspecting himself in the mirror. Bags under my eyes down to my knees.

Sophie said nothing. She fed our son, rocked him, fed him again. It was an endless loop. And all the while, there was James who, instead of helping, just moaned.

Listen, maybe your mum could babysit? he suggested one evening, stretching after his shower. Fresh, rested. I was thinking, I might go to Jamies cottage for the week.

Sophie froze, bottle in hand.

I need a break, Soph. Seriously. He started packing his overnight bag. I havent had a proper sleep in ages.

But did she sleep? Her eyes stuck together, but as soon as she lay down Benjamin would start howling, and it was already the fourth time that night.

Its hard for me too, Sophie whispered.

Yeah, I know, James waved her off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. But my job is serious, lots of responsibility. I cant show up to clients looking like this.

Then something clicked. Sophie suddenly saw us from the outside: her, in a tattered dressing gown, hair a mess, clutching the crying baby; and him, packing a bag, escaping.

I want to live for myself and get some rest, James muttered, not even glancing at her.

The door banged shut.

Sophie stood in the centre of the flat, our son wailing, and felt everything inside her crumble.

A week passed. Then another.

James phoned three times asked how things were. His voice was distant, as if talking to an acquaintance.

Ill come at the weekend.

He didnt come.

Ill definitely be over tomorrow.

And again, he didnt show.

Sophie rocked our screaming son, changed nappies, made bottles. Sleep just thirty minutes at a time.

Are you alright? her friend texted.

All fine, she lied.

Why did she lie? It was shameful, I suppose. Shameful to admit her husband walked out. That she was left on her own.

Youd think it couldnt get worse. But things became more interesting at the shops, when she bumped into Jamess colleague, Helen.

Wheres your husband? Helen asked.

Hes working a lot.

Figures. All men are the same as soon as children arrive, theyre suddenly busy at the office. Helen leaned closer: Does James travel for work often?

What trips?

Well, he was just in Manchester for a seminar! Showed us photos.

Manchester? When was that?!

Sophie remembered: last week, James didnt phone for three days. Said he was swamped.

Not swamped. Away in Manchester.

James came back Saturday. With flowers.

Sorry Ive been gone so long. Lots of work.

Did you go to Manchester?

He froze, bouquet in hand.

Who told you that?

Doesnt matter. Why lie?

Im not lying. I just thought youd be upset that I went without you.

Without her?! She couldnt go anywhere with a baby.

James, I need help. Do you get that? I havent slept properly in weeks.

Well get a nanny.

With what money? You never give me any.

I do! I pay the rent and bills.

What about food? Nappies? Medicines?

He went silent. Then:

Maybe you should get back to work. At least part-time? Theres no sense sitting at home. Well hire a nanny.

Sitting at home, as if its easy!

At that moment, Sophie picked up our son, looked at James, and knew: this man didnt love her.

He never had.

Leave.

What, now?

Go. Dont come back until you decide whats more important: family or your freedom.

James grabbed his keys and left. For two days. Then texted: “Thinking things through.”

Sophie didnt sleep. She thought too.

Imagine being alone with your thoughts for the first time in months.

Her mum rang:

Sophie, how are things? Is James home?

Hes away, on a work trip.

She lied again.

Maybe I could come over, help out?

I can manage.

But that wasnt all. Her mum turned up regardless.

Whats going on here? she looked around. Oh, love, just look at yourself!

Sophie glanced in the mirror. Quite a sight.

Wheres James?

At work.

At eight in the evening?

Sophie stayed quiet.

Whats happened?

Then she cried. Properly, like a child loud and desperate.

Hes left. Said he wants to live for himself.

Her mum was silent for a moment, then spat out:

What a rotter. Absolute rotter.

It was strange her mum never used strong language.

I always thought James was weak. But this is another level.

Maybe Im wrong, Mum? Maybe I should be more understanding?

Are you struggling?

The simplicity hit Sophie: shed been worrying about James, his stress and comfort.

Hadnt once considered herself.

What should I do?

Live. Without him. Better to be alone than stuck with someone like that.

James showed up Saturday. Tan from his “thinking” session at the cottage.

Can we talk?

Yes.

They sat down at the table.

Listen, Soph, I get its hard for you. But its not easy for me either. Why dont we agree: Ill help out with money, visit the boy. But for now, Ill live separately.

How much?

What?

Money. How much?

Well, say, £300.

Three hundred pounds. For a child, food, medicine.

James, go to hell.

What?!

You heard me. And dont come back.

Im making a reasonable offer!

A deal? You want freedom. What about mine?

James replied with a phrase that made everything clear:

You dont get freedom. Youre a mum.

Sophie stared at him. There he was: the real James. A childish selfish man who saw motherhood as a prison sentence.

Ill file for child support tomorrow. One quarter of your salary. By law.

You wouldnt dare!

I would.

He stomped out, slamming the door. And Sophie, for the first time, felt she could breathe easier.

Benjamin cried. But now she knew shed cope.

A year passed.

James tried to come back twice.

Soph, shall we give it another go?

Too late.

James grumbled that Sophie was spiteful. Not convincing.

Sophie hired a nanny and got a job as a nurse.

At work, she met a doctor named Andrew.

Any children?

A son.

Wheres his dad?

Living for himself.

They met. Andrew brought Benjamin a toy car. They played and laughed together.

Soon, theyd stroll together all the time in the park.

James found out. Called up:

The boys only one, and youre seeing men!

What did you expect? That Id just wait around?

But youre a mum!

Yes, I am. So?

He didnt ring again.

Andrew was different. When Benjamin was ill, he came straight over. When Sophie was exhausted, he would take her and Benjamin to his cottage for some rest.

Benjamin is two now. Calls Andrew “Uncle.” He doesnt remember James.

James got married. Pays child support.

Sophie isnt bitter.

Now, she lives for herself. And its wonderful.

Tonight Ive learnt: you only truly find peace when you stop carrying someone elses burden and start living for your own happiness.