When my husband, Eric, suggested having a third child, I knew things had to change. Raising two kids while balancing work and household duties was already exhausting, and Eric contributed little beyond his paycheck. I wasn’t about to take on more while he lounged around like a king. When I voiced my frustration, it escalated faster than I expected.
Eric and I had been married for 12 years. At 32, I was feeling the weight of raising our two children—Lily, 10, and Brandon, 5—almost entirely on my own. I worked part-time from home and handled all the household tasks, while Eric believed his role as the “provider” excused him from parenting. Diapers, school runs, bedtime stories, sick nights? All mine. He unwound with hours of TV or video games.
One day, after weeks of exhaustion, I carved out an hour for coffee with my best friend. I asked Eric to watch the kids, and his response infuriated me.
“I’m tired. I worked all week. Take them with you,” he muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
I pushed back. “Eric, I need a break. It’s just an hour.”
His response floored me. “You’re the mom. Moms don’t get breaks. My mom didn’t need one, and neither did my sister.”
That was when I realized I’d hit my breaking point.
A few days later, Eric casually dropped a bombshell at dinner. “We should have another baby.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Another? Eric, I’m drowning with two, and you want to add more to my plate?”
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