When I got sick, I finally saw a side of my husband that I wish I had never seen. He abandoned me and our newborn baby because he didn’t want to step up and be the husband and father I thought he was. So I decided to play along — and in the end, I came out on top.
I’m 30 years old, married to a man named Drew who’s 33, and we have a six-month-old baby girl named Sadie. She’s the light of my life — her smile lights up the whole room, her chubby cheeks make you want to squish them all day, and her sweet little giggle could melt anyone’s heart. But apparently, all of that was nothing more than an inconvenience to my husband when I got sick.
Let me tell you what happened. Buckle up, because it still feels like a fever dream to me — and not just because I literally had a fever when it all started.
About a month ago, I came down with a brutal virus. It wasn’t COVID, it wasn’t RSV, but it was something fierce. I had body aches, chills, a splitting headache, and a cough so violent it felt like my ribs were being punched from the inside. The worst part? Sadie had just gotten over a cold, so I was already drained and running on empty.
At that point, I was completely exhausted, sick, and trying to take care of a baby who was still extra clingy after her own illness. Meanwhile, Drew had been acting weird for weeks, even before I got sick. He was distant, constantly on his phone, chuckling at things he wouldn’t share with me. Whenever I asked what was so funny, he’d just shrug and say, “It’s work stuff.” His patience was running thin, too. He would snap at the smallest things — like dishes left in the sink or me forgetting to defrost the chicken for dinner.
One night, while I was rocking Sadie and desperately trying not to cough all over her, he looked at me and said, “You always look so exhausted.”
I couldn’t help but reply, “Well, yeah. I’m raising a whole human being!”
I thought that maybe, just maybe, this illness would finally make him realize he needed to step up. I hoped he would see how hard I was struggling and jump in to help. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The night my fever spiked to 102.4, I could barely sit up. My hair was plastered to my forehead, my skin felt like it was on fire, and my entire body ached as if I had been run over by a truck. I looked at him, using what little strength I had left, and whispered, “Can you please take Sadie? I just need to lie down for 20 minutes.”
Without even blinking, he said, “I can’t. Your coughing is keeping me up. I NEED sleep. I think I’m going to stay at my mom’s for a few nights.”
At first, I laughed — not because it was funny, but because it was so absurd I genuinely thought he was joking.
But he wasn’t.
He actually got up, packed a duffel bag, kissed Sadie on the head — not me — and walked right out the door. The whole time, I kept asking, “Are you serious right now? You’re really leaving me?” And he just nodded and didn’t say another word.
He didn’t even bother to ask how I was supposed to care for Sadie when I could barely stand. After he left, I sat on the couch holding her while she cried from being overtired and hungry. I just stared at the door, completely numb.
A few minutes later, I texted him: “You’re seriously leaving me here sick and alone with the baby?”
His reply made my blood boil: “You’re the mom. You know how to handle this stuff better than me. I’d just get in the way. Plus, I’m exhausted and your coughing is unbearable.”
I read that message over and over again, my hands shaking — whether from the fever or from sheer rage, I’ll never know. I couldn’t believe that the man I married, the father of my child, thought my coughing was a bigger inconvenience than abandoning his sick wife and baby alone.
Fine.
Somehow, I made it through the weekend. I barely ate, I cried in the shower whenever Sadie napped, and I kept her alive on nothing but Tylenol, water, and pure instinct. The entire time, Drew didn’t check in once.
I didn’t have family nearby — they live hours away — and my friends were either out of town, busy, or dealing with their own lives. As I lay there, shivering and delirious, one single thought played in my mind over and over: I needed to show him exactly what it felt like to be completely abandoned.
So I started planning.
When I finally felt human again — my fever was gone, though I was still coughing and weak — I knew exactly what I was going to do.
About a week later, I texted him: “Hey babe. I’m feeling much better now. You can come home.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Thank God! I’ve barely slept here. Mom’s dog snores and she keeps making me do yard work.”
Yard work. Poor baby.
Before he came home, I cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom, prepped Sadie’s bottles and food, stocked the diapers and wipes, and even made Drew’s favorite dinner — homemade spaghetti carbonara with garlic bread. I took a shower, did my hair and makeup for the first time in weeks, and put on real clothes that didn’t scream “I haven’t slept in months.”
When he walked in, he looked around like everything was perfectly normal. He smiled, ate dinner like a king, burped loudly, and then flopped down on the couch with his phone as if the last week had never happened.
A few minutes into his “relaxation time,” I finally made my move.
“Hey,” I said in the sweetest voice I could muster, “Can you hold Sadie for a second? I need to grab something upstairs.”
“Sure,” he muttered, barely glancing up, still scrolling on TikTok.
I went upstairs, grabbed my small suitcase and my car keys, then came back down.
Noticing the suitcase, he blinked in confusion. “What’s that?”
“I booked a weekend spa retreat,” I said calmly. “Massage, facial, room service. I need a break.”
He sat up straight, clearly panicking. “Wait — you’re leaving now?!”
“Yep! Just for two nights. I left instructions. Bottles are labeled, her favorite toys are ready, diapers and wipes are fully stocked, and emergency numbers are on the fridge. You’re the dad. You can handle it.”
He started stammering, “Claire, I don’t know what to—”
I raised my hand to stop him. “No. Remember your words last week? ‘You’re the mom. You know how to handle this stuff better than me.’ Well, now you’re the dad. Time to figure it out.”
He just sat there, completely stunned.
“You wanted sleep so badly? Good luck. I’ll be back Sunday night. Don’t call unless it’s a real emergency. And don’t even think about dropping her at your mom’s.”
Then I turned around and left. I didn’t slam the door. I didn’t cry in the car. I drove 45 minutes to a cozy little inn with a spa and free chocolate chip cookies in the lobby.
That day, I decided I wouldn’t answer any calls or texts. If there was a real emergency, he’d figure it out.
I had a 90-minute massage, took naps, read by the fireplace, got a pedicure, and watched trashy reality shows in a fluffy robe. It was absolute heaven.
On Saturday, I slept in until 9 a.m., got a facial, and had a warm croissant with coffee while reading a book by the fire.
He did call twice. He left two voicemails — one was panicked, the other tried to guilt-trip me.
“Claire, Sadie won’t nap. She spit up on me twice. Please call me back.”
I didn’t.
But later that evening, I finally FaceTimed because I missed my daughter. When the screen lit up, Drew looked like he had aged a decade in two days. Sadie was sitting on his lap, hair messy, happily chewing on his hoodie string. Her diaper looked like it hadn’t been changed in a while.
“Hey, Sadie-bug,” I said softly. “Mommy misses you so much.”
She squealed and reached for the screen, and Drew looked like he was about to burst into tears.
“Claire,” he said, his voice cracking, “I’m sorry. I really am. I had no idea how hard this is.”
No kidding.
I just nodded. “I know.”
Sunday night, I came home to what looked like a battlefield — toys everywhere, dirty bottles in the sink, and Drew still wearing the same shirt, his hair sticking up in every direction like a cartoon scientist.
Sadie squealed and reached for me as soon as I stepped inside. I scooped her up, smothered her with kisses, and held her tight. She smelled like baby wipes and pure chaos, but she was okay — maybe a bit extra clingy.
Drew just stared at me like I had descended from heaven.
“I get it now,” he whispered. “I really do.”
“Do you?” I asked, looking him dead in the eyes.
He nodded, looking utterly defeated and ashamed.
I pulled out a folded paper from my purse and placed it on the table. He looked terrified — probably thinking they were divorce papers.
But it wasn’t. It was a detailed schedule. Morning duties, nighttime feedings, grocery runs, laundry, baths — half of the tasks had his name on them.
“You don’t get to check out anymore,” I told him firmly. “I need a partner. Not a third child.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. I’m in.”
To his credit, he has been trying. He gets up when Sadie cries at night, makes her bottles, changes her diapers without gagging, and even learned to swaddle her without needing a YouTube tutorial.
But I’m not naive. I’m not forgiving him right away. I’m watching. I’m still deciding.
At least now, he understands: love doesn’t mean letting someone walk all over you. And I am not the type of woman you abandon when things get hard.
I’m the type of woman who will make sure you never forget exactly what I’m capable of.