Four babies in two years. A full-time remote job. A husband who thought parenting was my “shift.” This was my reality at 24. While I bounced between Zoom calls and tantrums, my husband complained about dust on the TV stand and the lack of home-cooked meals. His logic? His warehouse job was “real work,” while my salary and childcare were just hobbies.
The final straw came on a Thursday. I’d been up since 3 AM with teething twins, worked through lunch, and was scrubbing crayon off walls when he walked in. “This place is a pigsty,” he announced, stepping over a mountain of laundry. That night, I wrote “Gone out. Kids are yours.” and left for the first time in eighteen months.
Forty-eight hours later, I found chaos – half-eaten cereal everywhere, kids in yesterday’s clothes, and my husband loading suitcases into the car. “I can’t do this,” he admitted, fleeing to his mother’s. The internet had opinions – some said I endangered the kids, others cheered my stand. But the real lesson? If he’d rather run than parent, maybe we’re all better off if he stays gone.
