Perhaps it was for the best that I glanced at my husband’s text—everything fell into place.
Oliver and I had been together nearly seven years. On the surface, we were an ordinary couple—arguing, making up, holding grudges, forgiving. There were loud rows, but they always dissolved into passionate reconciliations, just like any “normal” pair. We’d laugh later, wondering what the fuss was about, and carry on as if nothing happened.
During my pregnancy, Oliver was unusually attentive. I had my moments—what expectant mother doesn’t?—but he bore it all without complaint. He’d even dash out at midnight for strawberry ice cream if the craving struck. Back then, I truly believed I’d struck gold with him.
Then our little miracle arrived—Sophie, our long-awaited daughter. And something inside him cracked. The care evaporated. Every chore became mechanical—soulless, resentful, his face permanently sour. As if he weren’t living with us, but serving a sentence.
I tried talking, pleading, probing. But he dodged conversations, recoiled from closeness—avoided *me*. He nitpicked endlessly: the nappies folded wrong, the wrong meal cooked. It felt like everything about me grated on him.
Of course, suspicions crept in. How could they not? He was a stranger: cold, indifferent. Then one night, when his phone buzzed with a text, I cracked. He was asleep. I swiped it from the nightstand, bracing for some cliché exchange with an “Emily” or “Hannah.”
But it was worse—messages from his *mother*.
I scrolled through. They’d been discussing our divorce for months. Oliver whined like a child—how exhausted he was, how he didn’t love me anymore, how I irritated him, how the spark had died. And his mother? Instead of talking sense, she egged him on: *”Life’s too short to be miserable. Just leave.”*
The cherry on top? Their cold, accountant-like debate over child support—how much they’d deduct from his deputy manager’s salary for *his own child*. My life? Just an inconvenient line item in his budget.
I didn’t sleep a wink. The kettle hissed on the stove, one thought hammering in my skull: he hadn’t just drifted away—he’d already left, in silence. And the worst part? His own mother, instead of saving her son’s family, had shoved him toward the door.
When he woke, I handed him a coffee. Sophie, sensing the storm, lay quiet in her crib. No point tiptoeing—I said it outright:
“You know what, Oliver? Let’s file for divorce. And don’t fret—I won’t drag you to court over child payments. *My* daughter—you heard me? *Mine*—I’ll raise her myself, with my parents’ help. We’ll manage.”
He nearly choked on his coffee.
“You went through my phone?”
“Tell your mum to text you less at night—or don’t sleep if you’ve got so much to discuss about how *awful* I am. Just remember: you’ve got a child. Or are you erasing her too?”
Silence. Two days later, he packed his things. Those two days were spent signing the flat over to me—his final “duty.” Maybe it’s for the best. Now I’ve got the only part of that story that matters—my daughter. Let his *mummy* comfort him instead.