When I fell ill, I saw a side of my husband that shattered everything I believed about our marriage. Drew, my 33-year-old husband, abandoned me and our six-month-old daughter, Sadie—who, with her sunny smile and giggles that could light up the darkest day—needed him more than ever.
It all started a month ago, when a brutal virus struck me down. Not COVID, not RSV—just something as relentless and unforgiving. Body aches, chills, and a cough that rattled my ribs, leaving me weak and drained. To make matters worse, Sadie had just recovered from her own cold, and I was left holding the weight of everything.
In the weeks leading up to my illness, Drew had grown distant. His eyes were always glued to his phone, laughing at things he wouldn’t share, snapping at me over trivial things like unwashed dishes or forgotten grocery errands. One night, as I rocked Sadie while battling my cough, he casually said, “You always seem exhausted,” as if juggling a newborn and a household was something I should do without complaint. I had hoped—foolishly—that my sickness would be the wake-up call for him to step up, to show some compassion. I was wrong.
At the height of my fever, when every movement felt like a battle and I could barely keep my eyes open, I begged Drew, “Can you take Sadie for a while? I just need 20 minutes to rest.” His response was as cruel as it was shocking: “I can’t. Your cough is keeping me up. I need sleep. I think I’m going to stay at my mom’s for a few nights.” I thought I misheard him. But no—he packed a bag, kissed Sadie on the head, and walked out, leaving me to fend for myself.
Alone, I sat on the couch, holding Sadie as she cried from exhaustion and hunger, staring at the door in disbelief. When I finally mustered the strength to text him, his reply was cold and dismissive: “You’re the mom. You handle this better than me. I’d just get in the way. Plus, your cough is unbearable.” I read those words over and over, feeling the anger rise, but also a sickening sense of abandonment. The weekend that followed was a blur—Tylenol, tears, and willpower. Drew didn’t check in even once. With no family nearby and friends either busy or out of town, I realized I needed to show him what real abandonment felt like.
A week later, when I finally felt human again—still a little sick, but no longer feverish—I sent Drew a simple text: “Hey babe. I’m feeling much better now. You can come home.” His response was immediate: “Thank God! I’ve barely slept here. Mom’s dog snores and she keeps asking me to help with yard work.” Yard work? While I was alone, sick, and caring for our baby?
I got to work preparing for his return. I scrubbed the kitchen, prepped Sadie’s meals, and even cooked his favorite spaghetti carbonara with garlic bread from scratch. I showered, put on makeup for the first time in two weeks, and dressed in jeans that didn’t scream “sleep-deprived new mom.” When he finally came home, he walked in like nothing had changed, smiling and relaxed, before plopping down on the couch with his phone. He barely acknowledged what I had endured.
I knew it was time to confront him. “Hey,” I said sweetly, “Can you hold Sadie for a second? I need to grab something upstairs.” When I came back, I was holding a small suitcase and my car keys. Drew looked up in confusion. “I booked a weekend spa retreat—massage, facial, room service. I just need rest.” His eyes widened. “Wait, what? Claire, come on, you can’t just—”
I cut him off, my voice calm but firm. “Remember when you said, ‘You’re the mom. You know how to handle this better than me’? Well, now it’s your turn. I’ve left clear instructions for everything. You’re the dad—figure it out.”
For a moment, he was speechless, then muttered, “But Claire, you can’t just leave.”
I gave him a final look and said, “You wanted sleep? Good luck getting any. I’ll be back Sunday night.” And with that, I walked out.
This time, I wasn’t asking for anything. I was simply showing him how it felt to be left behind.
