I should’ve seen it coming. Twelve years of marriage, two kids, and a husband who thought “bringing home a paycheck” made him a parent—it was only a matter of time before things blew up. I just didn’t expect the breaking point to be Eric demanding a third child as casually as ordering extra fries.
We married when I was 20 and he was 31. I thought his age meant maturity. Instead, it meant he acted like the ruler of the house while I handled every chore, every meltdown, every responsibility. By 32, I’d spent a decade raising kids, running the home, and working part-time while Eric strutted around like his income was a gift I should worship.
He’d brag, “I take care of everything so Katie can stay home.”
Translation: She does everything so I don’t have to do anything.
Our kids, Lily and Brandon, deserved an involved father, but Eric didn’t even know their shoe sizes. Still, I stayed quiet, hoping he’d eventually step up.
Then one afternoon, I asked him to watch the kids for an hour while I met a friend. Without looking away from the TV, he said, “Moms don’t get breaks. My mom didn’t. My sister didn’t.”
I left before I exploded.
A week later, he announced we should have another baby. I told him I was exhausted. He insisted that his job was “enough,” completely blind to everything I carried.
Right as the argument escalated, his mother and sister walked in—two women who worshiped him and dismissed anything I said. They called me spoiled for wanting support.
That night, Eric came home and delivered his big move:
“Pack your things and leave.”
He expected me to beg. Instead, I asked, “What about the kids?”
“You’re not taking them,” he said.
“Perfect,” I replied. “Whoever stays here is the full-time parent. You kicked me out, so that’s you.”
His confidence evaporated instantly. The idea of raising his own kids terrified him.
He tried to backtrack, but the next morning I filed for divorce. Suddenly he realized that if I left, he’d be the custodial parent—something he absolutely did not want. He wanted a family he didn’t have to care for.
He signed everything.
I kept the house. I got full custody. He pays child support. And for the first time in years, I can breathe.
Eric thought kicking me out would punish me. Instead, it freed me.
The kids are thriving, the house is peaceful, and I finally see the truth: I wasn’t “complaining”—I was alone in a marriage built on my effort and his entitlement.
If Eric wants another child someday, he’ll need someone willing to raise three kids by herself.
I’m done being that woman.