My husband, Eric, dropped the bomb casually over dinner: “We should have another baby.”
I paused mid-bite. Two kids were already demanding my full attention. I was exhausted—physically and emotionally. Eric just shrugged. “We’ve done this before,” he said. “What’s the big deal?”
Everything became heavy in that moment. His indifference stung more than the request. I wasn’t naïve—I was already juggling two jobs, running the household, parenting, and diffusing tantrums without a shred of help.
“I do everything,” I said finally. “I cook. Clean. Manage schedules. The only thing you manage is the paycheck.”
He looked hurt. Conveniently. “I work hard,” he muttered defensively.
That night, I hit my breaking point. When I asked for an hour’s break—to breathe, to think—it became clear. “You’re just a mom,” he sneered. “Moms don’t get breaks.”
I realized then that nothing would change. So I picked up my keys and walked out. When he demanded I leave the house, I didn’t hesitate. I packed my bags—but I didn’t walk away empty-handed. I turned to him and said, calmly:
“Fine. Just know this: the kids stay.” His expression drained on lock. “Wait… what?”
“You heard me,” I replied, icy calm in my voice. “If I go, our kids stay right here.”
Two days later, I filed for divorce. I got full custody and kept the house. Eric’s idea of “providing” stayed on his terms—financial support only, never actual parenting. Now, I build a life where hard work and love are seen—and shared. No more crumbs of recognition. Just respect.
