When I got sick, I finally saw a side of my husband that I didn’t expect. He left me and our newborn baby behind because he didn’t want to step up and be a responsible father or husband, so I played along. But guess what? I came out on top!
I’m 30, married to Drew, who’s 33, and we have a six-month-old daughter, Sadie. She’s the light of my life—bright smile, chubby cheeks, and the sweetest giggle. But apparently, all of that was just a minor inconvenience to my husband when I got sick.
Here’s what happened. Buckle up, because it still feels like a fever dream—and not just because I had a fever when it all started. This was about a month ago. I caught some brutal virus. Not COVID, not RSV, but something else entirely.
It hit me hard—body aches, chills, and a cough that felt like my ribs were being punched from the inside! The worst part? Sadie had just recovered from a cold herself, so I was already completely drained.
I was sleep-deprived, sick, and trying to care for a clingy baby who was still recovering. Strangely, Drew had been acting off for weeks, even before I got sick. He was distant.
He was always on his phone, laughing at things he wouldn’t share. When I’d ask what was so funny, he’d just shrug and say, “It’s work stuff.” His fuse was short too. He snapped over little things—the dishes in the sink or me forgetting to defrost the chicken.
He also kept commenting on how tired I looked. “You always seem exhausted,” he said one night while I was rocking Sadie in my arms and trying to suppress a cough.
“Well, yeah, duh. I’m raising a human,” I snapped, a little annoyed.
I thought maybe, just maybe, this illness would snap him out of it. I hoped he’d see me struggling and finally step up. Pick up the slack. Be the partner I married.
I was wrong.
The night my fever hit 102.4, I could barely sit up! My hair was glued to my forehead, my skin was burning, and my entire body ached. I looked at him and, with all the energy I had left, whispered, “Can you please take Sadie? I just need 20 minutes to lie down.”
He didn’t even flinch. “I can’t. Your cough is keeping me up. I NEED SLEEP. I think I’ll stay at my mom’s for a few nights.”
I actually laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was so ridiculous, I thought he was joking!
He wasn’t.
He actually got up, packed a duffel bag, kissed Sadie on the head (not me), and walked out. All the while, I kept asking, “Are you serious right now? You’re really leaving?” He just nodded and said nothing.
He didn’t even care about how Sadie would be taken care of while I could barely stand. After he left, I sat on the couch holding her as she cried from being overtired and hungry. I stared at the door. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed after I texted him.
“You’re seriously leaving me here sick and alone with the baby?” I had written, still in disbelief.
“You’re the mom. You know how to handle this stuff better than me. I’d just get in the way. Plus, I’m exhausted, and your cough is unbearable.”
I read that text five times, still in shock. My hands were shaking, either from the fever or the rage—I’m not sure which. I couldn’t believe this man, who was supposed to be my partner, thought my cough was more of an inconvenience than stepping up and helping with OUR child while I was sick!
Fine.
I somehow made it through the weekend. Barely ate, cried in the shower when Sadie napped, and survived on nothing but Tylenol, willpower, and instinct. And during all that time, Drew didn’t check in once!
I couldn’t rely on family because they were hours away, and though my friends called occasionally, they were busy or out of town. The whole time I was lying in bed, a single idea kept repeating in my mind: I need to show him what it feels like to be completely abandoned.
So I did.
I started planning. If he thought being sick and abandoned wasn’t a big deal, I was going to show him exactly how it felt. By the time I was functional again, no longer feverish but still coughing, I knew what I was going to do.
A week later, I texted him.
“Hey, I’m feeling much better now. You can come home.”
He responded immediately. “Thank God! I’ve barely slept here. Mom’s dog snores and she keeps asking me to help with yard work.”
Yard work. Poor guy. Imagine that.
Before he returned, I cleaned the kitchen, prepped Sadie’s bottles and food, and made his favorite dinner—spaghetti carbonara with garlic bread from scratch. I showered, put on makeup for the first time in two weeks, and wore jeans that didn’t scream “I’ve been awake every two hours with a baby.”
When he walked in, everything seemed normal. He smiled, looking relaxed, ate like a king, burped, and collapsed onto the couch with his phone! He barely even mentioned the hell I’d just gone through.
A few minutes later, I finally struck.
“Hey,” I said sweetly, “Can you hold Sadie for a sec? I need to grab something upstairs.”
“Sure,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He kept scrolling TikTok with one hand and holding her with the other.
I came down five minutes later with a small suitcase and my car keys. Sadie was smiling and babbling in his lap.
“What’s that?” he asked, blinking.
“I booked a weekend spa retreat,” I said, calm as can be. “Massage, facial, room service. I just need to rest.”
He sat up, confused. “Wait, you’re going now?!”
“Yep. Just two nights. I left instructions for everything—bottles, toys, diapers, emergency numbers. I planned ahead for you. You’re the dad. You can handle it.”
“Claire, I don’t know what to—” he started.
I raised a hand. “No, no. Your words last week, remember? ‘You’re the mom. You know how to handle this better than me.’ Now it’s your turn.”
He sat there, completely stunned. “Wait—Claire, come on. You can’t just—”
“I can. I am. You abandoned me when I needed you. Now you’ll see what it’s like to carry everything alone. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency. And no handing her off to your mom. You’re the dad. Figure it out.”
He just stared at me, eyes wide, clearly processing what was happening.
“You wanted sleep? Good luck getting any. Bye-bye, dear. I’ll be back Sunday night!”
And I walked out. No slamming doors. No tears in the car. I drove 45 minutes to a peaceful, quiet inn with a spa and free cookies in the lobby.
That weekend, I didn’t answer any calls or texts. If there was a real issue, Drew could call his mom or take Sadie to the hospital. I even ignored his panicked voicemails.
Instead, I had a 90-minute massage, napped, read by the fireplace, got a pedicure, and watched trashy reality shows in a fluffy robe. Pure bliss.
Saturday? Slept in until 9 a.m., got a facial, and ate a warm croissant by the fire.
He did call twice. Left two voicemails. One was full of mild panic. The other was guilt-tripping.
“Claire, Sadie won’t nap. I don’t know how you do this. She spit up on me twice. Please call back.”
I didn’t.
But I did FaceTime that evening because, despite everything, I missed my daughter, and unlike him, I still loved him.
When the screen lit up, Drew looked like he’d aged ten years. Sadie was in his arms, looking a bit messy, chewing on his hoodie string. Her diaper was… full.
“Hey, Sadie-bug,” I said softly. “Mommy misses you.”
She smiled and reached for the screen. Drew looked like he might melt.
“Claire,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how hard this is.”
No kidding.
I nodded. “I know.”
Sunday evening, I came home to a disaster—dirty bottles, toys everywhere, Drew still in the same shirt, eyes sunken, hair all over the place.
Sadie squealed when she saw me! I scooped her up and kissed her all over. She smelled like baby wipes and chaos, but she was fine, maybe a little clingy.
Drew looked at me like I was some kind of goddess. Exhausted and ashamed.
“I get it now,” he whispered. “I really do.”
“Do you?” I asked.
He nodded. “I messed up.”
I pulled out a folded paper from my purse and set it on the table. Don’t worry, it wasn’t divorce papers—not yet. He looked down at the paper, probably thinking it was the end of our marriage.
But it wasn’t. It was a schedule. Morning duties, night feedings, grocery runs, laundry, baths. His name was next to half of them.
“You don’t get to check out anymore,” I told