My husband flew off to the seaside right after I gave birth. And I was left alone—with pain, exhaustion, and a newborn in my arms.
Anton and I were a young couple. We married a year ago, swept up in first love, naïve dreams, and the absolute certainty we could handle anything. I’d just turned nineteen; he was twenty-one. We scraped by in a rented flat in Manchester, saving for a pram and babygros, counting the days until the birth, convinced a child would bring us closer, stronger, unbreakable. But it didn’t turn out that way.
A week ago, I gave birth. A tiny, wrinkled, warm bundle who instantly filled my life with sleepless nights, fear, formula milk, and a baby’s cries. I came home with my son in my arms, aching all over, barely able to sit, my legs shaky, my body trembling. The next day, my husband casually said,
“I’m off to Spain tomorrow.”
At first, I didn’t understand. I stared at him and asked,
“Where are you going?”
“Last-minute deal, mate. Dave from work offered it. Dirt cheap, practically free. Had to grab it. Been grafting like a dog all year—could do with some sun. You and the little one aren’t exactly up to much yet. You’ll manage fine without me.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he were popping to the shop. Meanwhile, I stood there, rocking the baby in my postnatal underwear, my eyes full of despair. I hadn’t even realised he’d already made up his mind—no discussion, no asking, just announcing.
“But what about us?” I asked.
“You’ll just be sleeping and eating anyway. I’ll be quick—just a week. Back before you know it. Don’t fret, you’ll cope.”
Those words burned. I didn’t know how to explain I wasn’t coping—that every second was a battle against fear. What if he stops breathing? What if he has a fever? What if I’m doing it all wrong? That I was terrified of silence and terrified of sleep because I was exhausted but couldn’t rest. That sometimes, all I wanted was someone to hand me a glass of water. To ask, “How are you doing?” To hold me.
And still—he left. He sent photos from the beach: him lounging with a cocktail, the sea, the palm trees. Not a word about his son. Not one question: How are you? What do you need?
I cried. Silently, so I wouldn’t wake the baby. My mum said,
“Be glad he’s there. Mine used to get bladdered on my birthdays. Rather have him in Spain than drunk at home.”
My friend chimed in, trying to help:
“At least you didn’t leave the hospital alone. No one even came to meet me—had to lug the baby and my bags home myself. Could be worse.”
But their words didn’t help. I didn’t feel lucky. I felt betrayed. I didn’t need a holiday or seaside snaps. I needed his shoulder. His hand. His presence.
Maybe one day I’ll forgive. But I doubt I’ll forget. Because in the most fragile, terrifying moment of my life—I was alone. And he chose that.
