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.
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