Maybe it was for the best that I glanced at my husband’s text—everything fell into place…
Tom and I had been together for nearly seven years. On the surface, we were an ordinary couple—fighting, making up, holding grudges, forgiving. There were loud rows now and then, but always followed by feverish reconciliation, just like “normal” people do. We’d laugh later, wondering what the fuss had even been about, and carry on as if nothing happened.
When I was pregnant, Tom was especially attentive. I was moody, as any expectant mother is, but he bore it without complaint. He’d even dash out at midnight if I craved strawberry ice cream. Back then, I thought myself lucky—I had the perfect husband.
Then our little Grace was born—our miracle, our longed-for daughter. And something snapped. Tom became a different man. His warmth vanished. Every chore he did felt mechanical—soulless, reluctant, his face twisted in irritation. As if he wasn’t living with us, but serving a sentence.
I tried to talk, to understand what was wrong. But he dodged conversations, avoided closeness—just shut me out. He nitpicked at everything: the nappies weren’t folded right, dinner wasn’t what he wanted. It felt like I repelled him most of all.
Of course, suspicions crept in. How could they not? My husband had turned cold, indifferent, like a stranger. Then one night, when his phone buzzed with a text, I cracked. He was asleep, and I silently lifted the mobile from the nightstand, bracing for some trite message from a “Sarah” or “Emily.”
But what I found was far worse—messages from his mother.
I scrolled through. And I realised they’d been discussing our divorce for months. Tom whined like a child—about how tired he was, how he didn’t love me anymore, how I grated on him, how the spark had died. And his mother? Instead of talking sense into him, she egged him on: “Life’s too short to be miserable, walk away.”
The cherry on top? Their cold calculations about child support. Like accountants, they’d worked out exactly how much would be docked from his deputy manager’s salary. My life, it turned out, was just an inconvenient line in his budget.
I didn’t sleep a wink. The kettle hissed on the stove, my mind pounding with one truth: he hadn’t just grown cold—he’d already left, in silence. And worst of all, his mother, instead of saving our family, had given him a push straight out the door.
When he woke, I handed him a mug of coffee. Grace, as if sensing everything, lay quiet in her cot. I didn’t dance around it—just said it straight:
“You know what, Tom? Let’s file for divorce. And don’t worry about child support—I won’t drag you to court. *My* daughter—you hear me? *Mine*—I’ll raise her myself, with my parents’ help. We’ll manage.”
He nearly choked on his coffee.
“You went through my phone?”
“Tell your mum to stop texting you at night, or don’t go to bed if you’ve got so much to discuss about how ‘awful’ I am. Just remember—you’ve got a child. Or will you cut her out too?”
He said nothing. Two days later, he packed his things. Those two days? Spent transferring the flat to my name—his final “duty” to the family. Maybe it was for the best. Now I have the only part of that story that matters—my daughter. As for him? Let his mum comfort him instead.
