Everything Was Fine Between My Husband and Me—Until I Gave Birth and He Claimed I Did Nothing All Day, So I Left Him Alone With Our Baby for a Week
Life seemed to be on track for my husband Dave and me—until the moment I gave birth to our daughter. After deciding I’d leave my job to focus on motherhood, we both agreed it would be best for our child. At first, things went smoothly. My pregnancy was uncomplicated, and I stayed active. I’d go to the market, cook meals, and keep the house spotless. Dave often praised me for how organized everything was.
“Our home’s never looked this good,” he said once, planting a kiss on my cheek. I was proud of the life we were building.
But everything changed once our daughter Marissa was born.
She was colicky and clingy—crying constantly and never wanting to be put down. Breastfeeding around the clock, tending to her every need, and running on no sleep became my new normal. But instead of support, I started getting criticism from Dave.
He accused me of being lazy, annoyed at how often we ate the same food and how messy the house had become.
“I don’t have time to whip up fresh meals every day,” I told him, trying to explain. “Marissa barely lets me put her down.”
“She can stay in the crib while you clean,” he argued. “It won’t take long.”
That was the last straw. “Why don’t you try it, then?” I snapped. “I’m doing everything I can to be a good mom. I haven’t even had time to breathe, let alone mop the floors.”
He wasn’t moved. “I work all day and come home to a mess and leftovers. Stop hiding behind the baby. You’re just being lazy.”
I was stunned. Tears filled my eyes as I walked away.
Dave didn’t understand how hard it was to care for an infant around the clock—because he was barely home. And when he was, he rarely helped unless I asked for a five-minute break.
That night, I made a decision. The only way he’d understand was if he experienced it himself.
One weekend, while Marissa was napping on his chest, I quietly packed a bag and tiptoed downstairs. I left a note on the kitchen counter:
“I’m going on vacation for a week. Marissa’s milk is in the fridge.”
I turned off my phone and left. I checked in to a quiet beachside hotel and spent the week doing things I hadn’t done in months—eating in peace, sleeping uninterrupted, even just enjoying the sound of silence. Back at home, Dave was stunned when he found the note. With no time to hire a nanny or call in help, he had no choice but to care for Marissa on his own. Within days, he was drowning. I watched through the baby monitor. He barely had time to cook, let alone clean. He ordered takeout every day, and the dishes piled up in the sink.
By midweek, he was desperate. He called his mom.
“Mom,” I heard him cry over the monitor. “Jamie left, and I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in days. Please come help me.”
His mother, of course, was furious—with me.
“How could she be so irresponsible?” she snapped. “A woman is supposed to raise her children, not dump them on the father. She shouldn’t have gotten married if she couldn’t handle it.” I scoffed when I heard that. This woman who’d raised her children with the help of nannies had no right to lecture me about parenting. Dave and I didn’t have the luxury of hired help. When I returned home, Dave hugged me tightly and apologized. “I’m so sorry,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t get it before. But now I do. You do so much, and I’ve done so little. I promise to be more involved—for you and for Marissa.”
His words brought some healing, but I couldn’t shake what his mother had said. That somehow, I had failed because I stepped away for a week to breathe. So I ask: should raising a child and keeping a home fall solely on the woman’s shoulders? Or should the responsibilities of parenthood and partnership be shared equally?
I’d love to hear your thoughts.