**Diary Entry**
I still can’t shake the shock of what happened. My husband, the man who begged me to have a baby, who swore he’d be there through everything—left us the moment real parenthood began. And he didn’t just leave—he ran straight back to his mother. Now I’m alone with our tiny son, an aching back, and a heart shattered into pieces.
Oliver and I married three years ago. At first, everything seemed perfect—young, in love, dreaming of the future. But I’d always known: children shouldn’t be rushed. We needed stability first—a bigger home, savings, a safety net. I understood this because of my younger brothers; I knew the exhaustion of round-the-clock care. Oliver, though, was an only child, coddled his whole life—he’d never faced anything truly difficult.
Then his cousin had a baby, and Oliver lost his mind. After visiting them, he’d start the same conversation: *”Come on, Emily. It’s time. Why keep waiting? It’s easier when you’re young parents. If we keep ‘preparing,’ we’ll be forty before we know it…”*
I tried explaining: playing with a baby for half an hour isn’t the same as sleepless nights, colic, feeding, rocking. But he’d brush me off: *”You make it sound like having a child is a natural disaster!”*
Our parents only made it worse. Both my mum and his mother swore they’d help day and night—*”Just have the baby, we’ll handle everything!”* So I gave in.
During the pregnancy, Oliver was perfect—carrying bags, cleaning, cooking, attending every scan, touching my belly, whispering how much he loved us. I truly believed he’d be a wonderful father.
But the fairytale ended the moment we came home from the hospital. Our son cried. Often. Endlessly. With reason and without. I tried shielding Oliver from the night shifts, but the baby woke every two hours. I paced the flat, rocking him, singing lullabies, but in our two-bedroom home, there was no escaping the screams. The kitchen light stayed on all night, and I’d see Oliver tossing in bed, covering his ears, seething.
Slowly, he grew irritable. We argued, voices rising. He stayed late at work. Then, one evening—three months in—he packed a bag without a word. *”I’m moving back to Mum’s. I need sleep. I can’t do this. I don’t want a divorce, I’m just exhausted. I’ll come back when he’s older…”*
I stood in the hallway, our son in my arms, my milk coming in. And he just… left.
The next day, his mother called, calm as if nothing was wrong: *”Emily, love, I don’t agree with Oliver, but it’s better this way. Men aren’t cut out for newborns. I’ll come help. Just don’t be angry with him.”*
Then my mum rang. *”Mum, do you honestly think this is okay?”* I asked, choking back tears. *”He begged me for this. And now he’s gone. How do I survive this?”*
*”Darling, don’t act rashly. Yes, he ran. But not to another woman—to his mum. That means there’s hope. Give him time. He’ll come back.”*
But I’m not sure I want him back.
He broke me. Betrayed me when I was at my weakest—when all I cared about was our son, about *us*. He gave up within months. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever trust him again. Rely on him. *He* wanted this. *He* persuaded me. And the moment our child arrived—he fled.
Now it’s all on me. Our son. The chores. The exhaustion. The fear. And one thought won’t leave me: If he abandoned us *now*… what’s next?
