When Ethan and I married, I thought responsibility would shape him into the man I believed he could be. At first, he promised me the world—speaking of family, teamwork, and a life built together. When I became pregnant, he seemed thrilled, helping set up the nursery and whispering promises to our unborn child. For a while, I thought fatherhood had changed him.
But reality was harsher. Complications at 37 weeks forced an emergency C-section, leaving me weak and dependent. At the hospital, Ethan vowed to care for me and our daughter, Ava. Yet once home, his help was minimal. He dodged responsibility, often handing Ava back the moment she fussed.
Then, only four weeks into my recovery, Ethan announced plans for a weeklong beach trip with friends. I was stunned. “I can barely walk,” I reminded him, but he brushed me off, claiming his mother would help. Against my protests, he left—smiling as if he’d earned a break.
That week, I struggled through sleepless nights and searing pain, while Ethan sent carefree photos from the beach. When he returned, suitcase in hand, his own mother stood at the door—blocking him from walking back into the life he’d abandoned.
