A few weeks ago, I gave birth to our baby boy, Luc. The pregnancy was difficult, but the moment I held him, everything felt worth it. Tom, my husband, was supposed to pick us up from the hospital so we could start our new life as a family. I imagined him holding Luc with pride—that vision carried me through the hardest days.
On discharge day, I waited eagerly, Luc bundled up in my arms. But Tom didn’t show. After calling and texting with no reply, I finally got a message: he was at the mall, caught up in a sneaker sale.
I was heartbroken. A nurse noticed my distress and offered to drive us home. When we arrived, Tom was proudly admiring his new shoes, oblivious to what he’d done. When I confronted him, he casually said he thought I’d just take an Uber. It wasn’t just about the ride—it was about being there for us.
I packed a bag and left with Luc, staying with my sister. Tom called and messaged nonstop, even came to the house daily, begging for forgiveness. A week later, I agreed to see him.
He looked broken and full of regret. He apologized and told me he’d started therapy. I gave him one chance—on the condition that he take full responsibility for Luc to understand what fatherhood really meant.
For two weeks, he handled everything. It was messy, overwhelming, and emotional—but he didn’t give up. One night, he broke down and truly understood what he’d taken for granted.
Since then, Tom has changed. He’s never missed another moment and made it clear that we come first. Our family means everything to him now.
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