When I found out I was pregnant, I thought I knew what love felt like. I’d been with Halric for years, and despite our little disagreements, I believed in us. I believed in him. Carrying Rune for nine long months, through swollen ankles, endless worry, and nights where I cried myself to sleep from discomfort, I kept picturing the moment I would hand our son to his father. That vision—the three of us together—was what got me through every contraction and sleepless night.
So when Rune was finally born, healthy and perfect, I was overwhelmed with joy. His tiny fingers wrapped around mine, his soft breaths against my chest—it was like the whole world had rearranged itself. Everything else faded, except him. And yet, even then, part of me was already waiting for Halric to prove that he was as ready for this as I was.
The plan was simple: he would pick us up on discharge day, drive us home, and we’d start this new chapter as a family. I imagined him rushing into the hospital room, face lit with joy, reaching for Rune like he’d been waiting forever. That’s what fathers did in the movies, anyway. That’s what I thought real love looked like.
But discharge day came, and Rune and I waited. And waited.
I dressed him in the tiny onesie I’d picked out weeks before, one with little blue clouds, soft against his new skin. He made these small squeaky sounds, and every time he moved, my heart swelled. I sat by the window, checking the clock, watching other families leave together.
Thirty minutes passed. Then forty-five.
I called Halric once. Straight to voicemail. I texted him: “We’re ready. Where are you?”
No reply.
An hour passed. My chest grew tighter, panic mixing with exhaustion. The nurse noticed me checking the door again and again.
“Is everything okay?” she asked kindly.
I forced a smile. “My husband’s just late, that’s all.”
I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe something had held him up—traffic, a last-minute errand. But when my phone finally buzzed, I wasn’t prepared for the words staring back at me.
“Sorry, babe, I’ll be an hour late. I’m at the mall. There’s a big sale at my favorite shoe store, and I couldn’t pass it up.”
I read it again and again, my hands trembling. My throat closed, and tears blurred the words until I couldn’t see. My husband, who was supposed to carry us home, who was supposed to meet his newborn son with open arms, had chosen shoes.
The nurse returned and saw the look on my face. “What happened?”
I choked out the words. “He…he’s at the mall. There’s a sale.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief, then softened. Without hesitation, she said, “You don’t need to wait for him. I’ll take you home myself.”
I hesitated, embarrassed, but she shook her head. “You’ve been through enough. Let me help.”
That drive home was the longest of my life. Rune slept peacefully in his car seat, blissfully unaware, while I stared out the window, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. This was supposed to be the happiest day. Instead, I felt abandoned.
When we pulled up to the house, I braced myself. And there he was—sitting on the couch, shopping bags piled around him, grinning as he admired a new pair of sneakers.
The moment he saw me, his smile faltered. “What’s wrong?” he asked, clueless.
My voice shook with anger. “You missed picking us up from the hospital…for shoes. Do you have any idea how much that hurt me?”
He blinked, stunned. “I thought you could just grab a taxi home. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
Not a big deal. The words hit like a punch. It wasn’t just about a ride—it was about his presence, about being there for me, for Rune. About priorities.
That night, while he lounged on the couch, I packed a small bag. Every tiny onesie, every baby blanket I folded into the suitcase felt like a piece of my broken trust. Rune cooed softly, unaware of the storm around him.
When Halric finally noticed, his eyes widened. “Zeryn, what are you doing?”
“I’m leaving,” I said quietly, my hands trembling. “I need space. You need to figure out what matters to you.”
He jumped up, blocking the door. “Wait, let’s talk about this!”
I shoved past him, strapping Rune into the car seat with shaking hands. My sister’s house was the only place I felt safe. She opened the door without question, pulling me into a hug as I broke down.
For days, Halric called and texted nonstop. Desperate apologies, tearful voice notes. He even showed up at my sister’s door, begging to see me. But my sister stood firm, telling him, “She’s not ready.”
A week later, she urged me to talk to him. “He looks broken, Zeryn. You need to hear him out.”
When I finally agreed, I hardly recognized him. His hair was a mess, dark circles framed his eyes, and the moment he saw me, tears fell.
“I was a fool,” he said, voice breaking. “I hurt you, and I didn’t even realize how badly. Please, let me fix this. I’ve started counseling. I promise I’ll change.”
I held Rune tighter. “Halric, this isn’t about one mistake. It’s about what it means. Rune and I need to come first. Always.”
He nodded quickly. “I know. I’ll prove it to you. Please, give me another chance.”
I studied his face, searching for sincerity. “You’ll get one chance. But if you let us down again, Rune and I are gone.”
And then I added the condition: “Until you prove yourself, you’re on full-time baby duty. Every feeding, every diaper, every sleepless night. No excuses.”
At first, he looked stunned. Then he nodded. “Anything, Zeryn. I’ll do anything.”
The next two weeks were chaos. He fumbled bottles, panicked at Rune’s cries, and stumbled through long nights. More than once, he looked at me with desperation. “How do I make him stop crying?”
“Try feeding him,” I said, hiding a small smile.
He struggled. He sweated. He grew frustrated. But he didn’t give up. Slowly, he found his rhythm. He discovered how to make Rune giggle with silly faces, how to soothe him with soft humming, how to change diapers with surprising speed.
One night, after hours of crying, spilled milk, and endless rocking, he sat on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down his face. Rune nestled in his arms, finally asleep.
“I’m so sorry, Zeryn,” he whispered. “I didn’t get it before. I was selfish. But now…I see it. I see what you carry. I see how much I failed you. Please forgive me.”
In that moment, I knew he finally understood.
From then on, Halric was different. He never missed a feeding, never left me to face it all alone. He became the partner I needed, the father Rune deserved. Shoes didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was us.
And for the first time since Rune’s birth, I felt hope that maybe, just maybe, our little family could truly begin.
