He begged me for a child, then bolted back to his mums the moment our son turned three months old.
My names Poppy, and Im still reeling from the shock. My husbandthe man who dreamed of fatherhood, who pleaded with me to start a family, who swore undying love and supportvanished the second real life with a newborn kicked in. And he didnt just leave. Oh no. He ran straight to Mummy. Meanwhile, there I was, alone with our tiny boy, an aching back, and a heart in tatters.
Oliver and I tied the knot three years ago. At first, it was all sunshine and rainbowsyoung, in love, brimming with dreams. But I knew one thing: we couldnt rush into kids. We needed to settle, buy a proper house, save up. I knew this because Id helped raise my younger brothers, so I was well aware of the round-the-clock slog of caring for a baby. Oliver, on the other hand, was an only childpampered, shielded, never really tested by life.
Then his cousin had a baby, and Oliver became obsessed. After every visit, hed start up again:
“Come on, Poppy. Nows the time! Why wait? Younger parents cope better. If you keep preparing, well be in our forties before it happens!”
I tried explaining that a baby wasnt a toythat it meant sleepless nights, colic, endless feeding and rocking. But hed just shrug and say,
“Honestly, you make it sound like were preparing for a disaster, not a baby!”
Our mums only made it worse. Both insisted theyd help loads, that itd be a breeze. Eventually, I caved.
During the pregnancy, Oliver was the perfect husband. Carried the shopping, cleaned, cooked, came to every scan, even whispered sweet nothings to my bump. I really thought hed be a great dad.
Turns out, the fairytale ended the second we got home from hospital. Our son cried. A lot. For hours. With or without reason. I tried to let Oliver sleep, but the baby woke every two hours. Id pace our tiny flat, rocking him, singing lullabies. But in our cramped two-bed, there was no escaping the wails. The kitchen light stayed on all night, and Id watch my husband toss in bed, plug his ears, grow more irritable by the minute.
Slowly, he became snappy. The arguments started. He came home later and later. Then, one eveningjust after our son turned three monthshe packed a bag without a word.
“Off to Mums. Need sleep. Cant cope. Not divorcing, just exhausted. Ill come back when hes older.”
I stood frozen in the hallway, the baby in my arms, milk still warm in my chest. And off he went.
The next day, his mum rang. Calm as you like, as if it were perfectly normal:
“Darling Poppy, I dont agree with Oliver, but this is for the best. Men arent built to handle newborns. Ill pop round to help. Dont be too hard on him.”
Then my own mum called.
“Mum, honestlyis this normal?” I whispered, tears threatening. “He wanted this baby. Now hes abandoned me. What am I supposed to do?”
“Sweetheart, dont do anything rash. Yes, he ran. But not to another womanto his mother. That means he hasnt given up entirely. Give him time. Hell come back.”
But Im not sure I want him back.
He broke me. Betrayed me when I was at my weakest. When all I could think about was our son, our little familyhe quit. Couldnt even last a few months. Now I keep wondering how could I ever trust him again? Rely on him? He begged for this child. Pushed for it. And the second the baby arrived, he fled.
Now its all on me. Our son, the daily grind, the exhaustion, the fear. And one question that wont leave me alone: if he abandoned me at my lowest whats next?
