For over a decade, I was the glue holding my household together. My husband, Eric, and I had been married for 12 years. We had two beautiful children—Lily, our ten-year-old daughter, and Brandon, our energetic five-year-old son. From the outside, our family might have looked ideal, but behind closed doors, I carried the weight of parenthood almost entirely on my own.
I worked part-time from home to help with our finances, but my primary role was that of a full-time mother, homemaker, and—unfortunately—Eric’s enabler. While I juggled laundry, meals, school drop-offs, playdates, and sleepless nights, Eric considered his role done once his paycheck was deposited. He believed “providing” was enough. He never changed diapers, never stayed up when the kids were sick, never once packed a lunch or helped with homework. If parenting were a team sport, I was playing solo.
One day, after another exhausting week, my best friend invited me for a quick coffee break. It was the first moment of “me time” I’d had in weeks. As I slipped on my shoes, I asked Eric to watch the kids for just an hour.
He barely glanced away from the TV. “I’m tired. I worked all week. Why don’t you just take them with you?”
My heart sank. I explained how I needed a break, just one hour to breathe. But Eric shrugged it off. “You’re the mom. Moms don’t get breaks. My mom never needed one. Neither did my sister.”
That was the moment I realized just how deeply Eric believed his own twisted logic.
A few days later, as I served dinner, Eric dropped a bombshell. “I think we should have another baby.”
I froze. Did he seriously just suggest adding another child to the chaos I already managed alone?
“You can’t be serious,” I replied, stunned.
He was. And worse, he couldn’t understand why I was so opposed. “What’s the big deal?” he asked. “We’ve already done it twice.”
That’s when I finally snapped. “Yes, we had two kids, but I raise them. I’m the one up at night, the one who cooks, cleans, organizes, teaches, comforts, and manages every aspect of their lives while you sit on the couch and scroll on your phone.”
Eric didn’t take it well. He stormed off and, later that night, told me if I wasn’t willing to have a third child, I could leave.
So I did.
But not before I consulted a lawyer.
I filed for separation and fought for custody, something Eric thought I’d never do. The court sided with me, and he was ordered to pay child support. The irony? Now he had to take care of the kids during his scheduled visits—alone.
Since then, I’ve rebuilt my life. I’m no longer the tired, overworked woman begging for a break. I’ve found peace, balance, and strength in reclaiming my voice. My kids are thriving, and for the first time in years, I am too.
Eric wanted a third child. What he got instead was a wake-up call—and a wife who finally remembered her worth.
