In my marriage with Eleanor, we spent ten years together. We worked side by side in a laboratory, so much of our time was shared. When she told me she was with child, I was over the moon. I had longed for a little one so dearly that no words could capture my joy.
Yet my wife was a true careerist at heart. Motherhood had never been her dream. Eleanor aspired to a high-ranking position and financial wealth. But when the discomforts of pregnancy kept her from her beloved work, she realised a child would spell the end of her ambitions.
Our daughter arrived right on time. Almost at once, Eleanor was overtaken by melancholy after the birth. She despised the child, even wished to leave her at the hospital and wipe the memory away. She raged through the ward, screaming that our daughter had stolen a year of her life and left her lagging behind.
As they say, things only worsened. When I was promoted, my wife flew into a fury. She refused to tend to our daughter, not even to feed her. I had to bring in a physician, for I knew this would not end well. The tonics helped, but only for a spell. Eleanor accused me of wasting her youth while I climbed the professional ladder at her expense. More than that, she insisted the position should have been hers, not mine.
When I was sent to Belgium to establish a new branch, I urged her to come with me. But Eleanor refused. She filed for divorce and left. I went abroad with our little girl, and soon after, my mother joined us to help care for the child. Eleanor returned to her old post and to this day strives to prove herself more deserving of my station.
Yes, she is clever and diligent—but family was never her calling. One day, she may realise happiness lies not in career alone, but by then, it will be too late.
