“I Just Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Walked Out Three months—that’s how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, with baby Max screaming so loudly the neighbours banged on the wall. Three months of Marina shuffling around like a zombie, eyes red and hands shaking. Meanwhile, Igor stomped about the house, grumpy as a raincloud. “Can you believe I look like a tramp at work?” he snapped one morning, staring in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina kept quiet. She fed the baby, rocked him, fed him again—a never-ending cycle. And Igor, her husband, was nearby, complaining instead of helping. “Hey, maybe your mum could watch him for a bit?” he suggested one evening, stretching out after his shower, fresh and rested. “I was thinking of going to my mate’s place in the countryside for a week.” Marina froze with the bottle in her hand. “I need a break, Marina. Honestly.” Igor began stuffing clothes into his gym bag. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages.” And she—does she sleep?! Her eyelids droop, but as soon as she lies down, Max starts crying. Fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “Yeah, I get that it’s hard,” Igor waved her off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. “But my job’s serious; I have real responsibilities. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Then something strange happened. Marina saw them from the outside: her, in a stained dressing gown, hair a mess, baby wailing in her arms; and Igor, packing his suitcase, escaping. “I want to live for myself and get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not even looking her way. The door slammed. Marina stood alone in the flat with her crying son, feeling everything collapse inside. A week passed. Then another. Igor called maybe three times—asked how things were. His voice was distant, like he was chatting with an old acquaintance. “I’ll come at the weekend.” He didn’t. “I’ll definitely be there tomorrow.” Again, he didn’t show. Marina rocked her screaming baby, changed nappies, prepared formula. She slept in half-hour bursts between feeds. “Everything alright?” her friend asked. “Great,” she lied. Why did she lie? The shame. Shame that her husband had left, that she was alone with a newborn. As if things couldn’t get worse. But the real fun began at the shop—she bumped into Igor’s coworker. “Where’s your husband?” Lena asked. “Working lots.” “Figures. Men are all alike—once a baby comes, they’re always busy at work.” Lena leaned in: “Does Igor travel for work much?” “Travel?” “Well, he just went up to Manchester for that seminar, didn’t he? Showed us the pictures.” Manchester? When? Marina remembered: last week, Igor hadn’t called for three days. Said he was busy. Busy? No. Off holidaying in Manchester. Igor turned up on Saturday. With flowers. “Sorry I was gone so long. Busy at work.” “You went to Manchester?” He froze with the bouquet in hand. “Who said?” “It doesn’t matter who. Why lie?” “I’m not lying. Just thought you’d be upset I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere! “Igor, I need help. I haven’t slept in weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what money? You don’t give me any.” “What do you mean? I pay the rent and bills.” “And for food? Nappies? Medicine?” Silence. Then: “Maybe you could go back to work? Even part-time? No sense sitting at home. We’ll hire a nanny.” Sitting at home—as if that’s a break! Marina picked up her son, looked at Igor, and understood: he didn’t love her. Never had. “Get out.” “What?” “Go. And don’t come back until you decide what matters—your family or your freedom.” Igor grabbed his keys and left. Two days later, he texted: “Thinking.” Meanwhile, Marina didn’t sleep. And she thought too. Imagine being alone with your own thoughts for the first time in months. Her mum rang: “How are you, Marina? Igor not home?” “On a business trip.” Another lie. “Shall I come over? Help out?” “I’ll manage.” But her mum came anyway. “How’s things?” Mum looked around. “Good grief, Marina, look at yourself!” Marina glanced in the mirror. She looked a state. “And Igor?” “Working.” “At eight in the evening?” Marina was silent. “What’s going on?” And Marina broke down. Really, like a child—loud and desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Mum was silent. Then: “What a bastard. Utter bastard.” Marina was stunned—her mum never swore. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this much…” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Should I have been more understanding?” “Marina, isn’t it hard for you?” That simple question made Marina realise: she’d only ever worried about Igor. His tiredness, his comfort. Never about herself. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.” Igor came back Saturday. Tanned. Clearly “thinking” at his mate’s place. “Can we talk?” “Alright.” They sat at the table: “Look, Marina, I know it’s hard for you. But it’s not easy for me either. Can we agree? I’ll send money and visit. Just need to live separately for now.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, ten thousand.” Ten thousand. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. Don’t come back.” “Marina, this is business!” “Business? You want freedom? Where’s mine?” Then Igor said the line that changed everything: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mother!” Marina looked at him—this was the real Igor. An immature, self-centred man who thought motherhood was a life sentence. “I’ll file for child support tomorrow. A quarter of your salary. By law.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I would.” He stormed out, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt she could breathe easier. Max cried. But she knew now: she’d manage. A year passed. Igor tried coming back twice. “Marina, shall we give it another go?” “Too late.” Igor whined that Marina was a “hard cow.” She didn’t care. Marina hired a nanny and started working as a nurse. At the hospital, she met Dr. Andrew. “Any children?” “A son.” “And Dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought toy cars for Max. They played and laughed together. Soon, the three of them were always out at the park. Igor found out and called: “The kid’s only a year old, and you’re out with other men!” “And what? Should I wait for you?” “But you’re a mother!” “Yes, I am. So?” He never called again. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he was there. When Marina was exhausted, he took them to his cottage in the country. Now Max is two. He calls Andrew “Uncle.” He doesn’t remember Igor. Igor’s remarried. Pays child support. Marina doesn’t resent him. She’s living for herself now too. And it’s wonderful.

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 2

I just want some time for myself and a proper night’s sleep, my husband said as he packed his bag and walked out.

Three months, honestly, that’s how long this madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, with little Matthew wailing so much the neighbours started banging on the walls. Three months where Sophie trailed around the house like a zombie, eyes red, hands trembling.

And Dan roamed the flat like a storm cloud.

Can you imagine what I look like at work?! he complained one morning, peering into the mirror. I’ve got bags under my eyes down to my knees.

Sophie said nothing. She fed Matthew, rocked him, fed him again. It was just endless, the same thing over and over. And Dan, her husband, instead of helping out, just moaned about work.

Hey, maybe your mum could come round for a bit? he suggested one evening, stretching after a shower, looking fresh as a daisy. I was just thinking, maybe Ill nip to Tom’s cottage for a week. Bit of a break.

Sophie froze, bottle in hand.

I need a break, Soph. I mean it. Dan started stuffing things into his holdall. I havent had a proper nights sleep in ages.

As if she was actually sleeping?! Her eyelids were glued shut most of the time, but every time she lay down, Matthew started crying. Fourth time that night.

Its tough for me too, Sophie managed in a whisper.

Yeah, I know its tough, Dan waved her away, jamming his favourite shirt into the bag. But my job, its serious. I cant go talking to clients looking like this.

Then something strange happened. Sophie sort of saw everything from the outside: her, in an old dressing gown, messy hair, a crying baby in her arms. And him, packing a suitcase, ready to bolt.

I just want to live for myself and get some sleep, Dan muttered, not even glancing her way.

The door banged shut.

Sophie stood in the middle of the flat, baby wailing, and everything inside just seemed to crumble.

One week passed. Then another.

Dan rang three times standard, You alright? calls. His voice was distant, like she was someone he barely knew.

I’ll come round this weekend.

But he didnt.

I’ll definitely be over tomorrow.

Again, didnt show.

Sophie rocked a screaming Matthew, changed nappies, mixed bottles. Her sleep was half-hours caught between feedings.

You okay, Soph? her best friend Claire asked.

Brilliant, Sophie lied.

Why did she always lie? It was humiliating. Humiliating that her husband had ditched her, that she was alone with a baby.

Youd think it couldnt get much worse. But life had more up its sleeve. At the shop, Sophie bumped into one of Dans colleagues.

Where’s your Dan these days? asked Linda.

Working loads.

Typical, blokes are all the same, Linda said, leaning in. Dan off on business trips much?

What business trips?

Well, he just went to Liverpool for that seminar, didnt he? Showed us loads of photos.

Liverpool? Since when?!

Sophie remembered: the previous week, Dan hadnt called for three days. Said he was swamped.

Turns out, he was swamped relaxing in Liverpool.

Dan showed up that Saturday, with flowers.

Sorry Ive been away so long. Work, you know.

Liverpool?

He froze, bouquet halfway between them.

Who told you?

Doesnt matter. What matters is, why lie?

I didnt lie. Just figured youd get upset if I went without you.

Upset? Like she could actually go anywhere, stuck with a baby!

Dan, I need help. Im barely sleeping.

Well get a nanny.

How? Youre not exactly giving me any money.

What do you mean I dont? I pay rent, council tax.

And for food? Nappies? Medicine?

He went quiet. Then tried, Maybe you should go back to work? Even just part-time? No point you sitting around at home. We could get a nanny.

Sitting at home! As if it was a spa retreat!

And then Sophie picked up Matthew, looked at Dan, and it just clicked: this man didn’t love her at all.

Never had.

You need to go.

Where am I supposed to go?

Out. And dont come back till you decide what matters more: your family or your freedom.

Dan grabbed his keys and left. Two days later, he texted: Thinking.

Sophie wasnt sleeping, but she was thinking too.

Imagine, for the first time in months, you have a moment to think.

Her mum rang:

Sophie, darling, how are you? Is Dan home?

On a work trip.

Lied again.

Should I come over? Give you a hand?

Ive got this.

But her mum came anyway.

How are things here? she asked, glancing around the flat. Sweetheart, just look at yourself!

Sophie looked at her reflection. She really did look rough.

Where’s Dan?

At work.

At eight at night?

Sophie was silent.

Whats actually going on?

Thats when Sophie started sobbing. Really sobbing, noisy and desperate like a child.

He left. Said he wanted a life for himself.

Her mum was quiet for a bit, then just said, Absolute coward. All-time coward.

Sophie blinked. Her mum never swore.

I always thought Dan was weak, but I didnt know quite how much.

Mum, maybe its my fault. Maybe I should have understood.

Sophie, are you not exhausted?

That hits home, doesnt it? Sophie realised she’d spent all that time worrying about Dan his tiredness, his comfort.

Not once about herself.

What should I do, Mum?

Live, darling. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.

Dan came back on Saturday. Tan lines and all, obviously thinking hard at the cottage.

Can we talk?

Go on.

They sat at the kitchen table.

Listen, Soph, I get it, youre struggling. But Im struggling too. Maybe we can sort something out. Ill help out financially, drop by. But lets live separately for now.

How much?

What?

Money. How much?

Well, a thousand pounds.

A thousand. For a child, food, medicine.

Dan, do us a favour, get lost.

What?!

You heard me. Dont come back.

Sophie, Im offering a solution!

Solution? You want your freedom? Wheres mine?

Then Dan said the magic words that made it perfectly clear:

What freedom have you got? Youre a mum!

Sophie stared at him: there he was, real Dan. Selfish, childish, thinking being a mum meant she was chained.

Tomorrow Im filing for child support. A quarter of your salary. By law.

You wouldnt dare!

Watch me.

He left, slamming the door. For the first time, Sophie felt like she could breathe.

Matthew cried. But now she knew: shed manage.

A year went by.

Dan tried coming back twice.

Sophie, second chance?

Too late.

He whined, called Sophie a cow. Nobody believed him.

Sophie got a nanny, landed a job as a nurse.

And at work, she met a doctor, Andrew.

Got any kids?

A son.

Dad around?

Living for himself.

She introduced them. Andrew brought a toy car for Matthew. They played together and giggled.

Pretty soon, they all went to the park together.

Dan found out. Called up:

Matthews only one and youre already seeing blokes!

What did you expect, Dan? That Id just wait for you?

But youre a mum!

Yes, and?

He never called again.

Andrew was just different. Whenever Matthew was ill, he was straight round. When Sophie was totally shattered hed whisk them off to his cottage.

Now Matthews two. Calls Andrew uncle. Doesnt remember Dan.

Dan remarried. Pays child support.

Sophie holds no grudges.

Now she lives for herself too. And its brilliant.

I Paid for My Stepdaughter’s Fifteenth Birthday Party, but Her Father Went Back to His Ex-Wife For ten years, I raised this child as my own. I changed nappies when she was little. I took her to lessons every week. I helped her with homework, taught her to look after herself, hugged her through her first heartbreak. And she called me “Mum.” Not “Dad’s wife.” Not “Stepmother.” Mum. For her fifteenth, I’d spent months planning the celebration. I booked a lovely venue, ordered a dress, arranged music, and catering for loads of guests. I spent my savings, but I knew it was worth it. This was my child. Or so I thought. Three weeks before the party, her biological mother turned up. The woman who’d been gone for years—no support, no calls, no presence. Suddenly she was in my house, upset, talking about wanting a fresh start. I should’ve known something was wrong. But I trusted. On the day of the party, I arrived early to check the final details. The hall was perfect—decorated, arranged, everything in place. While making sure it was all just right, someone tapped me on the shoulder. They told me I should leave. That this was a “family moment.” That I wasn’t needed. I tried to explain that I’d raised this child. That I’d paid for everything. But it changed nothing. The man I’d spent years with simply said, “It’s best for the child this way.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just walked away. That evening, as I packed my things into boxes, the doorbell rang. It was late. I opened the door. There she was—in her party dress, crying, exhausted. “I left,” she told me. “I couldn’t stay there without you.” I tried to tell her she needed to be with her parents, but she hugged me and whispered: “You’re my mum. You know everything about me. You’ve always been there.” I held her tight. She told me that when they thanked the “family” at the party, she asked where I was. They told her I’d chosen not to come. So she told them the truth—in front of everyone. And she left. She stayed with me. We watched films late into the night, ate pizza, talked. For the first time in days, I felt at peace. The next day, I had lots of phone calls. I didn’t answer. Months later, everything was over, officially. I started a new life. She kept going with her studies, and chose to stay with me. She keeps that dress in her wardrobe. “To remember the day I chose my real family,” she says. And sometimes I wonder: Who really walked away from whom that day?

Yesterday I Quit My “Job” as Grandma—No Notice, No Paperwork: I Simply Set Down the Birthday Cake, Grabbed My Bag, and Walked Out of My Daughter’s House My “employer” was my own daughter—Charlotte. For years, I believed my pay was love. But yesterday I realised: in our family economy, my love isn’t worth much next to brand-new tablets. I’m Anne, I’m 64—retired nurse, living on a modest pension in the suburbs, but in reality I’m the driver, cook, cleaner, home tutor, counsellor, and on-call “ambulance” for two grandsons, Max (9) and Daniel (7). I’m what you’d call the village—the community that’s meant to raise a child, except now the “community” is usually one exhausted grandma surviving on coffee, valerian, and painkillers. Charlotte works in marketing; her husband, Andrew, in finance. Nice people—or so I kept telling myself. Nursery’s expensive, school is tricky, clubs are harder, so when Max was born, they looked at me like drowning people. “Mum, we can’t afford a nanny,” Charlotte sobbed. “And we don’t trust strangers. Only you.” So I agreed—not wanting to be a burden, I became the foundation. My days start at 5:45am: I make porridge (not the “quick” kind Denny refuses), get the kids ready, drive to school, clean floors I didn’t dirty, scrub toilets I didn’t use, ferry them to clubs—English, football, homework. I’m Grandma Routine. Grandma “No”. Grandma Rules. There’s also Susan—Andrew’s mum. She lives by the seaside in a new apartment with a facelift, a new car, endless holidays. She pops in twice a year; doesn’t know Max’s allergies, or how to calm Daniel when maths sends him into meltdown. She’s never scrubbed sick off a car seat. Susan’s Fun Grandma. Yesterday Max turned nine. I’d spent weeks preparing—little money, but I wanted my gift to be special. I’d spent three months knitting him a heavy blanket, his favourite colours, to help him sleep. I baked a real cake. At 4:15pm, Susan swept in—a cloud of perfume and shopping bags. “Where are my boys?!” My grandsons pushed past me to greet her. She perched on the sofa, pulled out the branded bag. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got the newest thing,” she declared—two top-of-the-range gaming tablets. “No limits today—my rules!” The kids lost the plot. Cake and guests forgotten. Charlotte and Andrew beamed. “Is it really necessary…” Andrew said as he poured her wine. “You spoil them.” I stood there holding my blanket. “Max, I brought you something too…and I baked a cake.” He didn’t look up. “Not now, Grandma, I’m beating a level.” “I spent all winter knitting…” He sighed. “No one wants blankets anymore, Grandma. Susan brought tablets. Why are you always so boring—just food and clothes?” I glanced at Charlotte, waiting for her to help. She laughed awkwardly: “Mum, don’t be upset. He’s just a kid. Of course the tablet’s more fun. Susan’s the ‘fun grandma’. You’re…you know…you’re our everyday.” Everyday Grandma. Like everyday dishes, everyday traffic. Needed, but invisible. “I want Susan to live here,” Daniel announced. “She doesn’t make us do homework.” That’s when something snapped. I folded up the blanket, set it on the table, hung up my apron. “Charlotte, I’m done.” “What do you mean—cut the cake?” “No. I’m done.” I picked up my bag. “I’m not a machine you just switch off. I’m your mother.” “Mum, where are you going?” she cried. “My presentation’s tomorrow! Who’ll pick up the kids?” “I don’t know. Maybe sell a tablet. Or let Fun Grandma stay.” “But we need you!” I paused at the door. “That’s just it. You need me—but you don’t see me.” I walked out. This morning, I woke at 9. Made coffee. Sat on my porch. And for the first time in years, my back didn’t ache. I love my grandsons. But I refuse to live as free labour masquerading as “family”. Love isn’t self-destruction, and a grandma isn’t just a resource. If they want Grandma Routine, they better respect the routine. For now… maybe I’ll join a dance class. Isn’t that what “fun grandmas” do?