I bathe the kids, run the errands, pay the utilities, schedule appointments, stay up with fevers, and somehow still have dinner ready when he walks through the door.
Every.
Single.
Day.
He comes home, drops his shoes in the hallway, scrolls on his phone, and acts like I’ve been lounging all day.
He’s never packed a school lunch.
Never once taken the kids to daycare.
His idea of parenting is throwing them in front of the TV when I beg for a break.
The final straw came last Thursday.
I was trying to clean up a spilled smoothie while our toddler screamed in the background and the baby was teething and clingy.
My husband walked in, took one look at the mess, and sighed.
“I don’t get how you can’t manage this.
You’re home all day.”
I stopped.
Just… stopped.
Later that night, after the kids were asleep, I calmly packed a bag.
He looked confused.
“Where are you going?”
I walked over, handed him the baby monitor, and said: “Figure it out.
You’re about to manage it all by yourself.”
I walked out with nothing but my keys.
And this morning?
He texted me at 6:12 AM asking where the diapers were.
I haven’t answered yet.
Instead, I checked into a nearby hotel with the last of the birthday money my mom gave me in July.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet.
No little feet running across the floor.
No crying, no sticky fingers on my shirt.
Just me, in a clean bed with no one to take care of.
At first, I felt guilty.
But then I slept.
I slept.
For the first time in what felt like years, I woke up without an alarm, without someone needing something, without someone asking me where their socks were.
By 10 a.m., he had texted again.
“He won’t eat the oatmeal.
He’s throwing it.”
I took a long sip of my coffee and turned off my phone.
