By 32, I’d spent a decade cooking, cleaning, soothing toddlers through fevers, folding endless loads of laundry, juggling a part-time job, and pretending I wasn’t drowning. Meanwhile, Eric strutted around like his paycheck was some divine offering and he was doing me a favor by giving me a family.
He loved telling people, “I take care of everything so Katie can stay home with the kids.”
Translation: I expect her to do every damn thing so I don’t have to lift a finger.
Lily’s ten. Brandon’s five. Both sweet, smart, and energetic. They deserve a dad who actually cares, but they got Eric—who never changed a diaper, never attended a school conference, and couldn’t tell you their shoe sizes if his life depended on it.
I let it go for years. Yes, I was furious. Yes, I felt trapped. But I didn’t want to blow up the marriage if there was any chance he’d wake up and participate.
Then one afternoon, I was heading out to meet a friend for a rare hour of adult conversation.
“Eric, can you watch the kids? Just an hour.”
His eyes stayed glued to the TV.
“I’m tired. Worked all week. Take them with you.”
“They’ll be fine. I need a break.”
“Moms don’t get breaks,” he said, as casually as if he were reciting the weather. “My mom didn’t need breaks. Neither did my sister.”
I froze. “So your sister never felt overwhelmed?”
“She managed. You should too.”
The rage I swallowed could’ve melted steel.
But I walked out anyway, needing the fresh air more than ever.
A week later, he dropped the bomb.
“We should have another baby.”
I almost laughed. “Eric, we can barely handle the two we have.”
“You know how it works. We’ve done it twice.”
Exactly. I did it twice. He just showed up at the end of the process and took credit.
“I do everything,” I said. “I’m exhausted.”
“I work. That’s enough.”
It was like talking to a wall with a superiority complex.
And of course, right when the argument started heating up, his mother Brianna and sister Amber arrived—perfect timing, as always. They never came to see me or the kids; they came to worship the ground Eric walked on and critique anything I dared to say.
When Brianna heard the topic, she gasped dramatically.
“A man doesn’t like to feel criticized by his wife.”
Amber chimed in, “You sound spoiled. Women have done this for centuries.”
I stared at both of them, amazed at their complete inability to see reality.
“You both survived motherhood by suppressing how you actually felt. I won’t do that.”
That didn’t go over well.
That night, Eric came home late, more worked up than before.
And instead of having an adult conversation, he threw the final punch.
“You know what? Pack your things and leave.”
It was like he expected me to collapse into tears and beg for forgiveness.
Instead, I looked him in the eyes and asked one simple question:
“What about the kids?”
“You’re not taking them.”
I nodded. “Good. They stay here. Whichever parent stays in this house is the parent responsible for raising them.”
He blinked, thrown off.
Eric loved the idea of being a father.
He just didn’t want any of the reality attached to it.
“You’re not leaving them with me,” he said, panic creeping into his voice.
“Oh, but you’re the one who kicked me out, remember? So you stay. You raise them. You do everything I do.”
His face drained of color.
Suddenly Mr. “Parenthood Is Easy” wasn’t so confident.
He tried to backpedal, of course. Called me later. Tried to rewrite the argument. Tried to make me feel guilty.
But the next morning, I filed for divorce.
And reality hit him like a brick.
If he didn’t want me in the house, then by default, he was the custodial parent—something he absolutely didn’t want. He wanted the illusion of family, not the actual responsibility.
So he signed everything.
I kept the house.
I got full custody.
He pays child support every month.
And, for the first time in years, my life feels like mine again.
Eric thought he was punishing me by kicking me out.
Instead, he gave me the shove I needed to walk away from a life where I did everything and got nothing back.
The kids are thriving. The house is calm. I sleep better.
I finally see that the problem wasn’t me “complaining”—the problem was me trying to make a marriage work with someone who never showed up.
If Eric ever wants another child, he’ll have to do it with someone willing to raise three kids alone.
I’m not that woman anymore.
