I’m 30, married to Drew, 33, and we have a six‑month‑old daughter, Sadie. She’s my sunshine—chubby cheeks, sweet giggles—but when I got sick, Drew treated both of us like inconveniences.
About a month ago, I caught a brutal virus. Not COVID, not RSV, but something vicious—body aches, chills, and a cough that felt like my ribs were cracking. Sadie had just recovered from her own cold, so I was already drained.
Drew had been distant for weeks, glued to his phone, snapping over small things. One night, while I rocked Sadie through my fever, I begged him: “Can you take her for 20 minutes?” His reply? “Your cough is keeping me up. I need sleep. I’ll stay at my mom’s.”
He packed a bag, kissed Sadie, and walked out—leaving me sick and alone. His text later read: “You’re the mom. You know how to handle this better than me.”
I powered through the weekend on Tylenol, tears, and sheer will. No family nearby, friends too busy. Drew never checked in. As I lay feverish, one thought burned: He needs to know what abandonment feels like.
When I recovered enough, I texted: “I’m better now. You can come home.” He rushed back, complaining about his mom’s dog and yard work. I cooked his favorite meal, cleaned the house, and smiled as he relaxed on the couch. Then I struck.
“Can you hold Sadie? I need to grab something upstairs.” Minutes later, I came down with a suitcase. “I booked a spa retreat. Two nights. Bottles are labeled, diapers stocked. You’re the dad. Figure it out.”
His jaw dropped. “Wait—you’re leaving now?!” “Yes. You abandoned me when I needed you most. Now it’s your turn.”
I spent the weekend in bliss—massages, naps, croissants by the fire. Drew’s voicemails grew panicked: “Sadie won’t nap. She spit up on me. Please call back.” I didn’t.
When I FaceTimed, Sadie smiled at me while Drew looked exhausted, hair wild, shirt stained. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize how hard this is.”
I returned Sunday to chaos—dirty bottles, toys everywhere, Drew worn down. Sadie squealed with joy at my return. Drew whispered, “I get it now. I messed up.”
I handed him a paper—not divorce papers, but a schedule. Morning duties, night feedings, laundry, grocery runs. Half had his name. “I need a partner, not a third child.”
To his credit, he’s trying—waking at night, making bottles, changing diapers without gagging, even learning to swaddle. But forgiveness isn’t instant. I’m watching.
Love isn’t letting someone walk over you. It’s showing them you won’t be left behind when things get tough. I’m the woman who makes sure he never forgets it.
