Feverish, coughing, and barely able to stand, I reached for my husband—only to watch him walk out the door. Our baby girl cried in my arms as he left, claiming my illness was “disrupting his sleep.” That moment broke me. But it also showed me how strong I could be.
For three days, I was a single parent, surviving on Tylenol and determination. Drew didn’t call. Didn’t text. When I recovered, I planned my revenge—not with screaming, but with silence.
I welcomed him home with his favorite meal, a clean house, and a smile. Then I handed him the baby and walked out for a spa weekend. His frantic voicemails (“She won’t stop crying!”) went unanswered. By the time I returned, he looked like he’d been through a war.
“Now you know,” I said.
The chore chart I taped to the fridge wasn’t negotiable. Neither was my ultimatum: “Be a partner, or be a stranger.” For the first time, he’s actually trying. But forgiveness? That’s on my terms now.
