When I got sick, I thought my husband would step up. Instead, Drew walked out—leaving me with a 102-degree fever and our six-month-old baby, Sadie. His excuse? My coughing was keeping him awake. “I need sleep,” he said, packing a bag and heading to his mom’s. I was stunned, barely able to hold Sadie upright, but somehow, I survived the weekend—alone, aching, and furious.

Not once did he check in. No call, no text. And in that miserable fog, I hatched a plan. If he could abandon me, then he deserved a taste of what that felt like. A week later, recovered and calm, I welcomed him home with a smile, dinner, and clean floors. He thought all was well—until I handed him Sadie and walked out with my suitcase.

“I booked a spa retreat,” I said. “You’re the dad. You’ll figure it out.” His face twisted in panic, but I was already out the door. Two days of massages, silence, and croissants later, I returned to chaos—Sadie clingy, Drew disheveled and humbled.

“I get it now,” he said. “I really do.”

I handed him a list, not divorce papers: half the chores, feedings, and diapers now had his name. “You don’t get to tap out anymore,” I told him. “I need a partner.”

To his credit, he’s trying. He changes diapers, warms bottles, even swaddles like a pro. But forgiveness takes time.

One thing’s certain: I’m not the kind of woman you leave behind when things get hard. I’m the woman who makes sure you never try it again.