Twelve years into marriage, I, 32, was drained raising Lily, 10, and Brandon, 5, while Eric, 43, did nothing but work. I handled all parenting, a part-time job, and household tasks alone, while Eric watched TV or gamed, believing his paycheck was his only role. I loved our kids, but I was exhausted. One day, I asked him to watch them for an hour so I could see a friend. “I’m tired from work,” he said, staring at the screen. “Moms don’t take breaks. My mom didn’t.” I snapped, “She probably felt trapped like me!” He shrugged. “You wanted kids, Katie. Do your job.”
“They’re yours too!” I said, but he insisted money was enough. A week later, at dinner, he said, “Let’s have another kid.” I was shocked. “I’m drowning with two!” I said. “You don’t help.” He claimed his paycheck was plenty. I said parenting was more, but his mother, Brianna, and sister Amber, visiting, defended him. “Eric works hard,” Brianna said. “Be thankful.” Amber added, “Mom never complained.” I retorted, “I’m not complaining—I’m spent!” I told Eric his outdated mindset was unfair, but he said, “Get over it.” Later, he insisted on a third child. “You don’t even know our kids!” I said. He slammed out.
The next day, Brianna and Amber showed up, saying I’d changed and wasn’t the “sweet” wife. “I’m a woman who knows her worth,” I said. Amber called it disloyalty, but my sister arrived, warning of police. They left, furious. Eric returned, accusing me of disrespect. “I told them to mind their own business,” I said. He shouted, “Leave!” I packed but said, “The kids stay with whoever keeps the house.” He froze. I walked out with my sister. Eric refused custody, so I divorced him, kept the house, got full custody, and won child support. My stand was my victory.
