Maternity leave turned into a nightmare for me, Emma, testing our marriage to its limits. In a quiet town by the River Thames, three years of raising our first child nearly tore my husband, James, and me apart. Now that life’s settled, he’s pushing for a second baby, but the memories of those dark days fill me with dread. His stubbornness risks reopening old wounds—maybe even leading to divorce. How do I protect myself without losing my family?
When our son, Oliver, was born, I was full of hope. Before maternity leave, life with James felt perfect. We dated for two years, then lived together another two before tying the knot. No fights over chores or money—we split everything equally, discussed every expense, and always saw eye to eye. We planned for a child, braced for challenges, but nothing prepared me for reality. James, the man I thought was loving and understanding, became a stranger, and our marriage nearly crumbled.
The first months were hell. As a first-time mum, I struggled with crying, colic, and sleepless nights. My world revolved around Oliver, but James didn’t get it. He acted like my job was just feeding the baby every few hours and passing him a dummy. *”You’re at home all day—how hard can it be?”* he’d say, annoyed I’d stopped cooking elaborate meals or ironing his shirts. If I reheated leftovers, he’d grimace: *”This is inedible!”* But he refused to lift a finger. *”I’m slogging at work while you’re at home—you should handle this,”* he’d snap, ignoring that I was on duty 24/7.
We fought over everything—dust on the shelf, an unwashed pan, yesterday’s dinner. Even on weekends, he’d shout if I asked for help: *”My mum raised three kids, tended a garden, and cooked fresh meals daily! You can’t handle one baby in a flat?”* His words stung. I felt worthless, and his indifference killed my love for him. The worst part? Money. Once my salary stopped, James treated me like a spendthrift. He demanded itemised shopping lists but only approved what *he* thought was necessary. Once, he crossed off a haircut: *”You look fine—no need to waste cash.”* I choked on the humiliation.
My perfect marriage felt like a cage. I dreamed of leaving but had nowhere to go—no home, no job. Through tears, I vowed: *Survive maternity leave, return to work, then take Oliver and go.* That thought kept me going. But as my leave ended, something shifted. James suddenly booked me a spa day, bought new clothes so I’d *”look sharp”* for work. Once Oliver started nursery and I was back in the office, James transformed. He was the caring, attentive man I’d fallen for—helping at home, loosening the purse strings. The fights faded, the bitterness dulled, and I shelved divorce thoughts. We *were* a family again.
Then, months ago, James dropped the bomb: *”Em, I want another baby.”* It hit like a bolt of lightning. Memories of maternity leave—shouting, blame, loneliness—flooded back. *”You know how hard it was for me,”* I pleaded. *”I can’t go through that again.”* He brushed me off: *”I earn more now; we’ll manage. I want a son, an heir!”* His persistence grew, and I glimpsed that same coldness in his eyes. He wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t understand how terrified I was of being trapped at home again.
Every talk about Baby No. 2 ends in tension. James pushes harder; my chest tightens with panic. I picture sleepless nights, his criticism, the financial leash—it makes me feel sick. *”I’m not ready, Jamie,”* I say. *”Give me time.”* But he fires back: *”You’re just selfish, only think of yourself!”* His words cut deep, and I see traces of that angry, distant James returning. I fear we’re back on the brink of divorce, but I can’t bring myself to agree to another maternity leave. Those three years almost broke me—I won’t risk my health, my marriage, my sanity.
Some nights, I lie awake, torn between fear and guilt. James dreams of a big family; I can’t give him that. Am I being selfish? Or is he blind to how much he hurt me? I love him, I love Oliver, but the thought of another child feels like a knife to the heart. If James keeps pressuring me, our fights will escalate like before, and I’ll start planning my escape again. How do we fix this? How do I make him see that maternity leave wasn’t just *”mum bliss”*—it was a nightmare I can’t relive?
Sitting in our quiet flat, watching Oliver sleep, my heart aches with love and fear. I want to save our family, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough. James won’t back down, and the gap between us widens daily. If we can’t compromise, our marriage—the one we fought so hard to rebuild—will collapse. I’m at a crossroads, and every step feels like falling.
