**Diary Entry – 15th July**
The day after I gave birth, my husband jetted off to Spain. And there I was—alone, aching, exhausted, with a newborn in my arms.
Anton and I were young when we married, just a year ago, swept up in first love and naive dreams, certain we could handle anything. I’d only turned nineteen; he was twenty-one. We scraped by in a rented flat in Manchester, saving every penny for prams and babygros, counting down to the due date, convinced a child would bring us closer, make us stronger. But life had other plans.
A week ago, our son arrived—tiny, wrinkled, warm—and just like that, my nights turned sleepless, my days a blur of fear, formula, and crying. When I came home, my body wrecked, legs trembling, I could barely sit. The next morning, Anton casually said, “I’m flying to the Costa del Sol tomorrow.”
At first, I didn’t understand. “You’re what?”
“Got a last-minute deal. Matt from work sorted it—dirt cheap. I’ve been grafting all year; I need a break. You and the baby aren’t exactly up for much yet. You’ll manage fine without me.”
He said it like he was popping to the shops. Meanwhile, I stood there, rocking our son in postpartum underwear, eyes brimming with disbelief. No discussion, no asking—just a done deal.
“What about us?” I whispered.
“You’ll just be sleeping and feeding anyway. I’ll be back in a week. You’ll cope.”
His words stung. How could I explain that I wasn’t coping? That every second was a fight against fear—was he breathing, was he too cold, was I doing it all wrong? That I dreaded the silence and dreaded exhaustion more, desperate just for someone to hand me a glass of water and ask, “How are you?” To hold me.
But he left. Sent photos from the beach—lounging with a cocktail, the sea, palm trees. Not one word about our son. Not one “How are you holding up?”
I cried in silence, careful not to wake the baby. Mum said, “Be glad he’s gone. Mine was passed out drunk after I had you. Better he’s there than here causing chaos.”
My mate tried to cheer me: “At least you didn’t walk out of the hospital alone. No one even came for me. Had to cab it home with the baby and bags. You’ve got it alright.”
But their words didn’t help. I wasn’t happy—I felt betrayed. I didn’t need a holiday or beach snaps. I needed his shoulder. His hand. His presence.
Maybe one day I’ll forgive. But forgetting? Unlikely. Because when I was at my weakest, my most terrified, he chose to walk away. And that’s something you don’t come back from.
*Lesson learned: Love isn’t just vows—it’s showing up when it’s hard.*
