When my husband, Eric, suggested a third child, I knew something had to change. Raising two kids while managing the household and working part-time was exhausting—especially since he did little beyond his paycheck. I wasn’t about to take on more while he lounged like a king.
At 32, after 12 years of marriage, I was already overwhelmed caring for Lily, 10, and Brandon, 5, almost entirely alone. Eric believed providing financially meant he was exempt from parenting. Diapers, school runs, bedtime? All mine. His idea of unwinding? Hours of TV.
One day, I asked him to watch the kids for an hour. His response? “Take them with you. Moms don’t get breaks.”
Days later, over dinner, he casually suggested, “We should have another baby.”
I snapped. “I’m drowning, and you’re talking about adding more?”
His mother and sister, visiting at the time, defended him. “You should be grateful.”
But I’d had enough. When I refused, he said, “Pack your things and leave.”
So I did—without the kids. He couldn’t handle the responsibility. Now, I’m divorced, raising them alone. No regrets.
