My wife left me and our newborn baby.
I was married to Emily for ten years. We worked together in a lab, so we spent nearly every waking hour side by side. When she told me she was pregnant, I was over the moon. I’d dreamed of having a child for so long—there weren’t words for how thrilled I was.
But Emily was a career woman through and through. Motherhood wasn’t something she’d ever wanted. She’d set her sights on climbing the corporate ladder, on a life of financial security. When the pregnancy made her feel unwell, she had to step back from work—and that’s when it hit her: a baby would ruin everything she’d built.
Our daughter was born right on time, but Emily was crushed by postnatal depression. She couldn’t stand the baby. She wanted to leave her at the hospital and forget she ever existed. Emily screamed at the maternity ward staff that our daughter had stolen a year of her life and left her falling behind.
It only got worse. When I was promoted, she flew into a rage. She refused to go near our child—wouldn’t even feed her. I hired a therapist, knowing things couldn’t go on like this. The sedatives helped, but only for a while. Emily accused me of wasting her youth while I climbed the career ladder at her expense. She insisted the promotion should’ve been hers, not mine.
When I was sent to open a new branch in Germany, I suggested we all move together. Emily refused. She filed for divorce and walked out. I went abroad with our daughter, and not long after, my mum joined us to help look after the baby. Emily went back to her old job, and to this day, she’s still trying to prove she deserved my position more than I did.
Yes, she’s clever, she’s capable—but family was never her calling. One day she’ll realise happiness isn’t found in a job title. But by then, it’ll be too late.
