Deep down, I know James hates seeing me like this—exhausted, worn thin by sleepless nights, surviving on frozen ready meals. But without his help, this nightmare will never end.
We both knew what marriage was like—we’d each failed at it once before. So when we tied the knot, kids weren’t on the table. Nearing forty, the thought terrified me more than I let on. But a year in, something shifted. I started longing for a baby. I begged James. He resisted, openly indifferent, until he finally relented—with one condition: no nappies, no bottles, no tantrums. That would all be my responsibility.
I never thought he’d take those words so literally.
When Oliver was born, the hospital staff warned me—sleep would be a luxury. They weren’t lying. The nights blurred into a haze of crying, feeding, rocking, repeating. The days weren’t any better. Within weeks, I looked like a ghost: pale, hollow-eyed, clinging to consciousness like it was a luxury.
James adjusted his schedule—just not in a way that helped. He stayed late at the office, came home grumbling, then vanished into the living room to game with Ethan, his seventeen-year-old son from his first marriage. They’d spend hours glued to some violent shooter, shouting into headsets. Who needed the escape more—the moody teenager or the grown man—I honestly couldn’t say.
No one helps around the house. James insists he’s too tired. Ethan, apparently, is “going through a phase.” And yet both of them still expect dinner to appear like magic. Most nights, I can barely manage pasta or oven chips. When I suggested they cook for once, James scoffed. “That’s not a man’s job.”
I know James sees how strung out I am, how I force down those miserable microwave meals just to keep going. But until he steps up, this spiral won’t stop. And Ethan—that sullen, ungrateful lump—he acts like I’m the one disrupting his life.
Then came the latest nightmare: Ethan dragged home a stray. Mangy, shivering, pathetic-looking. Said he “felt sorry for it.”