When I got sick, I saw a side of my husband I never expected—and it was nothing like the man I married. He abandoned me, left me alone with our newborn daughter, because he didn’t want to step up as a father and husband. And while he thought he was getting away with it, I had other plans. Let me tell you how it all unfolded—brace yourself, it’s a wild ride.
I’m 30, married to Drew, who’s 33, and we have a six-month-old baby girl, Sadie. She’s a bundle of joy—her smile is pure sunshine, her chubby cheeks irresistible, and her giggle can melt anyone’s heart. But when I got sick, apparently all of that was a minor inconvenience to Drew.
About a month ago, I came down with a terrible virus—nothing like COVID or RSV, but a gnarly illness that hit me hard. It came with fever, body aches, chills, and a cough that made me feel like my ribs were being pounded from the inside. Sadie had just recovered from her own cold, and I was already running on fumes.
I was sick, sleep-deprived, and doing my best to care for a baby who was still clingy from her own recovery. But Drew? He’d been acting off for weeks. Distant. Always on his phone, laughing at things he wouldn’t share. When I asked what was so funny, he’d just say, “Work stuff,” and shrug it off. His patience was wearing thin, snapping over the smallest things—like dishes in the sink or me forgetting to defrost the chicken.
And then he started commenting on how tired I looked. “You always seem exhausted,” he said one night as I rocked Sadie, trying to hold back a cough.
“Yeah, duh. I’m raising a human,” I snapped back, frustrated.
I hoped, desperately, that this illness would snap him out of it—that he’d finally step up. That he’d become the man I married, the one who would support me when I needed him the most. But I was wrong.
The night my fever spiked to 102.4°F, I could barely sit up. My body ached, my skin burned, and I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. With every ounce of energy I had left, I asked Drew, “Can you please take Sadie for 20 minutes? I just need to lie down.”
His response? “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 couldn’t believe it. I thought he was joking. But he wasn’t.
He packed a duffel bag, kissed Sadie on the head (but not me), and walked out. I sat there, still in shock, holding a crying Sadie as my phone buzzed with his response to my text asking, “Are you serious right now? You’re really leaving?”
“You’re the mom. You know how to handle this better than me. I’d just get in the way. Plus, I’m exhausted, and your cough is unbearable.”
I read that text over and over, unable to believe my eyes. My hands shook—whether from the fever or my fury, I couldn’t tell. This man, my partner in life, thought my cough was more of a problem than him being there for me when I was clearly sick, struggling, and overwhelmed.
I couldn’t believe it. But instead of breaking down, I decided to make him understand exactly what it felt like to be abandoned.
I spent the weekend alone, barely eating, crying in the shower when Sadie napped, and getting by on nothing but Tylenol and sheer willpower. Drew never checked in once. Not a single text or call.
And that’s when I started planning.
By the time I was functional again, fever gone but still coughing, I knew exactly what I was going to do. So, a week later, I sent him a text: “Hey babe. I’m feeling much better now. You can come home.”
He immediately replied, “Thank God! I’ve barely slept. Mom’s dog snores and she keeps asking me to help with yard work.”
Poor baby. Imagine that.
I got to work: I cleaned the kitchen, prepped Sadie’s bottles and food, even made Drew’s favorite dinner—spaghetti carbonara with garlic bread from scratch. I showered, put on makeup for the first time in two weeks, and wore jeans that didn’t scream “I’ve been up every two hours with a baby.”
When Drew walked in, he barely noticed anything. He smiled, relaxed, ate like a king, and plopped down on the couch with his phone. Not a word about the hell I’d just gone through.
Then, I struck.
“Hey,” I said sweetly. “Can you hold Sadie for a sec? I need to grab something upstairs.”
“Sure,” he muttered, still scrolling on his phone, not even looking up.
I came downstairs five minutes later with a small suitcase and my car keys.
“Wait, what’s that?” he asked, looking confused.
“I booked a weekend spa retreat,” I said, completely calm. “Massage, facial, room service. I just need some rest.”
He sat up, dumbfounded. “Wait, you’re leaving now?!”
“Yep. Just two nights. I left instructions. Bottles are labeled, toys are set, diapers stocked. Emergency numbers are on the fridge. I got groceries. Everything’s good. Unlike you, I actually planned ahead. You’re the dad, after all. You can handle this stuff.”
“Claire, I don’t know what to—” he started.
I raised a hand. “Remember your words last week? ‘You’re the mom. You know how to handle this better than me.’ Well, now it’s your turn.”
He just stared, eyes wide.
“You wanted sleep? Good luck getting any. Bye-bye, dear. I’ll be back Sunday night.”
And with that, I left. I didn’t slam the door, I didn’t cry—I drove 45 minutes to a peaceful inn with a spa, free cookies in the lobby, and absolute quiet.
I didn’t answer his calls or texts. If there was a real emergency, he could call his mom or figure it out himself. I had a 90-minute massage, took naps, read by the fire, and watched trashy reality shows. Bliss.
By Saturday, he had left two voicemails—one filled with mild panic, the other an attempt to guilt-trip me.
“Claire, Sadie won’t nap. She spit up on me twice. Please call back.”
I didn’t. But I did FaceTime him later that evening. I missed my daughter, but I wasn’t about to give in just yet.
When the screen lit up, Drew looked like he’d aged ten years. Sadie was in his arms, her hair a mess, chewing on his hoodie string. Her diaper was… well, full.
“Hey, Sadie-bug,” I said softly, my heart melting. “Mommy misses you.”
She smiled and reached for the screen. Drew looked like he might cry.
“Claire,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how hard this is.”
No kidding.
“I know,” I said, and that was the end of it.
Sunday evening, I came home to chaos. Toys everywhere. Dirty bottles. Drew, still in the same shirt, eyes sunken, hair wild.
Sadie squealed when she saw me. I scooped her up, kissed her all over, and she smelled like baby wipes and a little bit of panic.
Drew just stared at me, looking like he’d seen a ghost.
“I get it now,” he whispered. “I really do.”
“Do you?” I asked.
He nodded. “I messed up.”
I pulled a folded paper from my purse and laid it on the table. He looked terrified, probably thinking it was divorce papers. But no—just a schedule. Morning duties, nighttime feedings, laundry, grocery runs, baths. His name was next to half of them.
“You don’t get to tap out anymore,” I told him. “I need a partner. Not a third child.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. I’m in.”
To his credit, he’s been trying. He wakes up when Sadie cries at night, makes her bottles, and even changed her diaper without gagging! He’s learning, and for that, I’m grateful.
But I’m not rushing to forgive him. I’m still watching. Still deciding.
One thing’s for sure—he’ll never forget: love doesn’t mean being walked all over. And I’m the woman who makes sure he knows it.
