The Son’s Tears and a Husband’s Departure: A Heartache in Whitcombe
In the chilly town of Whitcombe, where grey houses drown in autumn dampness, my life with Michael once felt like a fairy tale destined to shatter. He was already married before, but his first marriage fell apart because his ex-wife couldn’t give him a child. I became his second chance, his hope for a family.
We’d only been together three months when Michael proposed. My heart sang with joy, and I didn’t hesitate for a second. We were in sync, respected each other, and our love burned so brightly it seemed nothing could dim it. But shadows of doubt crept in when I realised I couldn’t get pregnant. Michael changed, as if he’d become a different man. He grew cold, dragged me to doctors, demanded I try any procedure just to conceive. I obeyed, head bowed, because I couldn’t imagine life without him. His dream of a child became my burden.
Then, at last, the test showed two lines. That day was drenched in happiness, like a rare sunbeam breaking through Whitcombe’s gloom. But joy soon gave way to trials. The pregnancy was hard—I spent most of it hospital-bound, confined to a bed. Yet our son was born healthy, though fussy. It was a miracle, and I thanked fate for it.
After the birth, however, a dark wave of postnatal depression swallowed me. Our son barely slept, crying through the nights, while I, exhausted, barely had time to wash my face. Household chores became impossible dreams. I longed for Michael’s support, but he withdrew. His indifference cut like a knife. One evening, as our son wailed again, Michael snapped. “You’re driving me mad! I can’t even watch the match in peace!” he shouted. Then came the blow: “You’re a terrible mother if the baby won’t stop crying!”
He left. Packed his things and went to stay with his parents, leaving me alone in our cold flat. Alone with the child he’d so desperately wanted. My son’s tears mixed with mine, and my heart shattered in pain and confusion. How could he? I was left with the baby he’d longed for, and now that crying was nothing but a nuisance to him.
Now I sit in silence, broken only by my son’s whimpers, wondering: what next? Is this just a temporary lapse, or is our marriage crumbling? The love that once seemed unbreakable now feels as fragile as the thin ice on Whitcombe’s river. Should I fight for our family, or is it time to walk away? Divorce feels terrifying, but enduring a husband’s indifference is worse.
What would you do in my place? Forgive him, or turn the page and start anew?