After a difficult pregnancy, I had imagined my husband, Gideon, sweeping into the hospital room, eyes shining with pride as he met our son, Theo. Instead, I stood alone at discharge—exhausted, euphoric, and waiting. No call. No message. Just silence.
Finally, a text: “Sorry, I’m running late. There was a sneaker sale.”
A sneaker sale. While I held our newborn, ready to begin life as a family, he chose shopping over showing up.
A kind nurse, clearly shaken by the situation, offered me a ride. Embarrassed but grateful, I accepted. When I got home, Gideon sat surrounded by shoe boxes, beaming like a kid on Christmas morning. When I burst into tears, he looked baffled.
That was the moment I realized he didn’t understand what he’d done. So I packed a bag for me and Theo and left a note: I’m staying away until you figure out what matters most.
My sister took us in. For days, Gideon’s messages poured in—apologies, desperate pleas, promises. I ignored them. Then one evening, my sister nudged me to talk to him.
