My name is Emily, and I still haven’t recovered from the shock. My husband, the man who begged me for a child, swore he’d love and support me—walked out on us the moment real parenthood began. And he didn’t just leave—he moved back in with his mum. I was left alone with our tiny son, a bad back, and a heart torn to pieces.
Oliver and I married three years ago. At first, everything seemed perfect. We were young, in love, full of dreams. But I knew better than to rush into having children. We needed to settle, buy a proper home, save some money first. I understood—I’d helped raise my younger brothers and knew how hard it was to care for a baby. Oliver, though, was an only child, coddled his whole life. He’d never faced real hardship.
Then his cousin had a baby, and Oliver lost his mind. Every time we visited, he’d start the same old conversation:
*”Come on, Em. It’s time. Why keep waiting? It’s easier when you’re young. If you keep ‘preparing,’ we’ll be forty by the time we start!”*
I tried explaining that holding a baby for half an hour wasn’t the same as sleepless nights, colic, feeding, rocking. But he’d just wave me off:
*”You make it sound like we’re bringing home a hurricane, not a child!”*
Our parents only made it worse. My mum and his mum both swore they’d help night and day, take everything off my hands—just give them a grandchild. I gave in.
During the pregnancy, Oliver was the perfect husband. Carried the shopping, cleaned, cooked, came to every scan. He’d touch my bump and whisper how much he loved us both. I really thought he’d be a good father.
The fairytale ended the second we came home from the hospital. Our son cried—often, loudly, with or without reason. I tried shielding Oliver from the worst of it, but the baby woke every two hours. I paced the flat, rocking him, singing lullabies, but in our two-bedroom flat, there was no escaping the wails. The kitchen light stayed on all night, and I’d see Oliver tossing in bed, clamping his hands over his ears, seething.
Slowly, he grew bitter. We argued, snapped. He started staying late at work. Then, one evening, when our son was three months old, he silently packed a bag.
*”I’m moving in with Mum. I need sleep. I can’t do this. I’m not leaving you—just need time. I’ll come back when he’s older.”*
I stood frozen in the hallway, our son in my arms, milk leaking through my shirt. And then he just walked out.
The next day, his mum called. Calm, like nothing was wrong:
*”Emily, love, I don’t agree with him, but it’s better this way. Men aren’t built for newborns. I’ll come help you. Just don’t hold it against him.”*
Then my own mum rang.
*”Mum, tell me honestly—do you think this is normal?”* I asked, choking back tears. *”He begged for this. Now he’s gone. How am I supposed to live like this?”*
*”Sweetheart, don’t be hasty. Yes, he ran. But not to another—just to his mum’s, which means there’s still hope—give him time, he’ll come back.”*
But I’m not sure I want him back.
