**Diary Entry**
Natasha and I were married for ten years. We worked together in a lab in London, so we spent most of our time 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 wasn’t her dream. She longed for a managerial role, for financial success. When the pregnancy made her feel unwell, she had to step back from her work. That’s when she realised a baby would derail her ambitions.
Our daughter was born right on time. Almost immediately, Natasha was consumed by postnatal depression. She resented the child, even wanted to leave her at the hospital and pretend she didn’t exist. She screamed at the maternity ward staff, raving about how our daughter had stolen a year of her life and set her back.
Then things got worse. When I was promoted, Natasha flew into a rage. She refused to go near our daughter—wouldn’t even feed her. I hired a therapist, knowing this couldn’t end well. The sedatives helped, but only briefly. She accused me of wasting her best years while I climbed the ladder at her expense. Worse still, she insisted the promotion should’ve been hers, not mine.
When I was sent to Berlin to open a new branch, I suggested we all go together. Natasha refused. She filed for divorce and left. I moved abroad with my little girl, and eventually, my mum came over to help care for her. Natasha went back to her old job in London and still tries to prove she’s more deserving of my position.
Yes, she’s clever 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.
*Lesson learned: Some souls chase success like a mirage, never noticing the love they leave behind.*