“I want to live for myself and get some decent sleep,” announced James as he left.
Three months. Thats how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, as little Oliver cried so loudly the neighbours thumped on the walls. Three months of Sophie stumbling about like a zombie, eyes raw and hands trembling.
James stalked around the flat, sulky as a rain cloud.
“Can you imagine the state Im in at work?” he burst out one morning while staring at his reflection. “Bags under my eyes down to my shoes.”
Sophie said nothing. She fed their son, rocked him, fed him again. The same cycle, endlessly repeating. And nearby, Jamesher husbandoffered only complaints instead of comfort.
“Listen, maybe your mum could come over and help?” he suggested one evening, stretching after a hot shower, freshly scrubbed and wide awake. “I was thinking, maybe Ill go spend a week at Toms cottage in the Cotswolds?”
Sophie froze, bottle in hand.
“I genuinely need a break, Soph,” James insisted, starting to pack his overnight bag. “I havent slept properly in ages.”
Did he think she was sleeping? Her eyes were glued shut, but the moment she lay down, Oliver started crying againfor the fourth time that night.
“Its tough for me too,” Sophie whispered.
“Yeah, I know its tough,” James waved her off, stuffing his favourite shirt in the bag. “But my jobs importantcant show up to clients looking like this.”
Suddenly, Sophie saw their little scene from the outside: her, in a stained dressing gown, hair a mess; their baby crying in her arms. And James, packing his bag and making his escape.
“I want to live for myself and catch up on sleep,” he grumbled, not meeting her eye.
The door slammed.
Sophie stood alone in the flat, with a bawling baby, feeling everything around her starting to unravel.
A week passed. Then another.
James called maybe three times. His voice detachedlike she was some distant acquaintance.
“Ill be round at the weekend.”
He wasnt.
“Ill come tomorrow. Promise.”
He never did.
Sophie rocked Oliver, changed nappies, made formula feeds. Naps came in thirty-minute intervals between cries.
“Are you alright?” asked her friend Hannah.
“Absolutely fine,” Sophie lied.
Why does she lie? She was ashamed. Ashamed her husband had left. Ashamed to be alone with a baby.
But things grew even more interesting one day at Tesco, where she bumped into Jamess colleague, Laura.
“So, wheres your chap these days?” Laura asked.
“Busy with work,” said Sophie.
“I get it. Men are all the samesoon as theres a kid, they bury themselves at work,” Laura said, leaning in. “Does James travel much for work?”
“Travel? What travel?”
“He went to Manchester last weekfor a seminar. Showed us photos, actually.”
Manchester? When was this?
Sophie remembered: James hadnt called for three days last week. Hed said he was ‘busy’.
Busy, but on holiday in Manchester.
He returned that Saturday, flowers in hand.
“Sorry Ive been away so long. Works stacked up.”
“Were you in Manchester?”
He froze with the bouquet.
“Who told you that?”
“It doesnt matter. Why did you lie?”
“I didnt exactly lie. I just thought youd be upset I went without you.”
Without her? With a baby, she couldnt leave the house.
“James, I need your help. Honestly. I havent slept properly in weeks.”
“Maybe we should get a nanny.”
“With what? You dont give me any money for that.”
“I pay the rent and the bills, dont I?”
“But what about food? Nappies? Medicine?”
Silence. Then:
“Maybe you could go back to worka few shifts? Why stay cooped up at home? With extra money, we could get a nanny.”
Like being at home was some kind of holiday.
In that moment, as Sophie held Oliver and looked at James, she knew: he didnt love her.
Not really.
Never had.
“Leave,” she said quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Go. Dont come back until you decide whats more important: family or freedom.”
James took his keys and left. Two days passed. Then he texted: “Im thinking.”
Meanwhile, Sophie used those sleepless nights to think for herself.
Can you imagine being truly alone with your own thoughts, for the first time in months?
Her mother rang.
“Sophie, how are you? Is James home?”
“Hes away for work,” she lied again.
Still lying.
“Should I come round to help?”
“Ill manage.”
Her mother came over anyway.
“Whats going on in here?” she gasped, surveying the mess. “Sophie, look at yourself!”
Sophie glanced in the mirror. She looked dreadful.
“And wheres James?”
“Hes at work.”
“At eight in the evening?”
Sophie remained silent.
“Whats happened here?”
And finally, Sophie criedhard and uncontrollably, like a child.
“He left. Said he wants to live for himself.”
Her mum was quiet. Then finally:
“Selfish. Thoroughly selfish.”
Sophie stared. Her mother never swore.
“I always thought James was weak. But this”
“Maybe its my fault, Mum? Should I have understood better?”
“Sophie, are you happy? Is any of this easy for you?”
From her mothers simple question, Sophie realised shed spent all her time worrying about Jameshis comfort, his tiredness.
Never once had she thought of herself.
“What do I do now?”
“Live. Without him. Better to be on your own than stuck with someone like that.”
James came back that Saturday. Tannedhed clearly spent time thinking in the countryside.
“Lets talk?”
“Alright.”
They sat together at the kitchen table.
“Listen, SophI know youre struggling. But things arent easy for me either. How about we work something out? Ill send money, visit Oliver, but I need my own space for now.”
“How much?”
“What?”
“Money. How much are you offering?”
“Well, maybe five hundred pounds a month.”
Five hundred pounds. For a baby, food, medicine.
“James, get lost.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Stay away.”
“Im trying to be practical!”
“Practical? Youre after your freedomwhat about mine?”
And then James uttered the sentence that made it all clear:
“What freedom do you have? Youre a mother now!”
Sophie looked at him. This was the real Jamesa selfish child who thought being a mother was a life sentence.
“Ill be filing for support. A quarter of your salary. By law.”
“You wouldnt dare!”
“I would.”
He left, slamming the door. For the first time, Sophie felt she could breathe.
Oliver started crying again. But now she knew: shed survive.
A year went by.
James tried to come back twice.
“Sophie, shall we give it another go?”
“Too late.”
James moaned, calling Sophie names. It didnt stick.
Sophie found a nanny, started work as a nurse.
At work, she met a doctor named Andrew.
“Any children?” he asked.
“A son,” she replied.
“And his dad?”
“Living his own life.”
Andrew met Oliver, brought him a toy car, played and laughed with them. They began to spend weekends in the park together.
James found out and rang up:
“Olivers just one, and youre seeing another man!”
“What did you expect? For me just to wait around?”
“But youre his mother!”
“Yes, I am. So?”
He never called again.
Andrew was different. When Oliver was illhed come straight over. When Sophie was exhausted, hed invite them to his cottage.
Oliver is now two and calls Andrew Uncle. James is barely a memory.
James remarried, pays child support.
Sophie holds no bitterness.
Shes living for herself nowadays. And that, shes learned, is not selfish at allbut necessary. Sometimes, putting your own well-being first is the greatest step you can take for yourself and your child.
