I’m a full-time mom. About a year ago, I left my job to take care of our three-year-old daughter, who is autistic and requires a lot of support. Lately, I’ve noticed that my usually feminist husband has been criticizing me in a group chat.
Transitioning into the role of a stay-at-home mom (SAHM) wasn’t something I had envisioned for myself. I used to thrive in the fast-paced world of marketing, surrounded by campaigns and fueled by brainstorming sessions over coffee. But all that changed a little over a year ago when my husband, Jake, and I made a significant decision. Our daughter, Lily, who is three and autistic, needed more attention than what her daycare could provide. Her needs are complex, requiring constant care and support, and it became clear that one of us had to be with her full-time.
I won’t sugarcoat it — leaving my career behind was one of the toughest decisions I’ve ever made. I miss the freedom of earning my own income and the satisfaction of a job well done. But here I am now, spending my days planning meals, cooking, and baking. I’ve found joy in these tasks, and experimenting in the kitchen has become my new creative outlet.
Our backyard has turned into a small garden oasis under my care, and I take care of most of the household chores. Jake does his fair share too; he’s actively involved in chores and parenting whenever he’s at home. We’ve always considered ourselves equals, rejecting traditional gender roles, or so I thought until last week.
It was a regular Thursday, and I was tidying up Jake’s home office while he was at work. It’s filled with tech gadgets and piles of paperwork, typical for someone in software development. His computer screen caught my eye — it was still on, casting a soft glow in the dim room. He usually left it on by accident, but what I saw next wasn’t accidental at all.
His Twitter feed was open, and I froze when I saw the hashtag #tradwife attached to a tweet. Confusion washed over me as I read the post. It glorified the joys of having a traditional wife who embraces her domestic duties. Attached was a photo of me, taking a batch of cookies out of the oven, looking every bit like a 1950s housewife. My stomach churned as I scrolled through more posts. There I was again, tending to the garden and reading to Lily, our faces thankfully obscured.
This was Jake’s account, and he had been crafting a whole narrative about our life that was far from reality. He portrayed me as a woman who relished her role as a homemaker, willingly sacrificing her career for aprons and storybooks. The truth of our situation — that this arrangement was a necessity for our daughter’s well-being — was nowhere to be seen.
I felt betrayed. Here was the man I’d loved and trusted for over a decade, sharing our life with strangers under a false pretense that felt foreign to me. It wasn’t just the lies about our relationship dynamics that hurt — it was also the realization that he was using these glimpses of our life to bolster some online persona.
I shut the computer down, my hands trembling with a mix of anger and bewilderment. All day, I grappled with my emotions, trying to comprehend why Jake would do this. Was he dissatisfied with our situation? Did he resent my decision to stay home? Or was it something deeper, a shift in how he perceived me now that I wasn’t contributing financially?
The rest of the day passed in a blur. His posts kept replaying in my mind, and eventually, I couldn’t ignore them any longer. I decided to call him and address everything head-on.
“Jake, we need to talk,” I finally said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He answered, sounding concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I took a deep breath, the weight of my discovery weighing heavily on me. “I saw your Twitter today…”
His expression fell, and he let out a long sigh, indicating he knew exactly what this conversation was about to entail. He started to respond, but I interrupted him.
“Calm down,” he said, dismissing it as “just harmless posting.” That was the final straw. I told him I wanted a divorce, called him out for his deceit, and ended the call.
Jake rushed home immediately. We argued, but with Lily’s strict schedule, I couldn’t let the conflict drag on. He pleaded with me to have a proper conversation after putting Lily to bed. Reluctantly, I agreed. That night, he showed me his phone, revealing that he had deleted the Twitter account. But the damage was already done.
A week passed, and my anger hadn’t subsided. This wasn’t a simple misunderstanding. It was a breach of trust. Jake attempted to explain, claiming it started as a joke, but he got carried away with the attention it garnered. But excuses weren’t enough.
Motivated by a mix of hurt and the need for justice, I decided to expose him. I took screenshots of his tweets and shared them on my Facebook page. I wanted our friends and family to know the truth. My post was straightforward: “Your husband belittles you in front of his friends behind your back. Sound familiar?”
The response was immediate. Our relatives were shocked, and the comments poured in. Jake was inundated with messages and calls. He left work early once more to beg for my forgiveness. He knelt, tears in his eyes, pleading that it was all just a “silly game.”
But I couldn’t let it go. The trust that bound us together was broken. It wasn’t just about a few misguided posts; it was about the respect and understanding we were supposed to have for each other. I told him I needed time and space to think and heal. I moved out with Lily to another apartment.
For six months, Jake begged for forgiveness. He sent messages, left voicemails, and made small gestures to show he was sorry. But sorry wasn’t enough. I told him that if he truly wanted to make amends, we needed to start anew. In my eyes, we were strangers now, and he had to court me like he did years ago when we first met.
So, we began again, slowly. We went on dates, starting with coffee and progressing to dinners. We talked a lot — about everything except the past. It was like rediscovering ourselves individually and as a couple. Jake was patient, perhaps realizing this was his last chance to salvage our once-loving relationship.
As I sit here now, reflecting on the past year, I realize how much I’ve changed. This betrayal forced me to reevaluate not only my marriage but also myself and my needs. I’ve learned that forgiveness isn’t just about accepting an apology; it’s about feeling secure and valued again. It’s a gradual process, one that we’re both committed to, step by step.
What would you have done if you were in my shoes? Share your thoughts on Facebook.
My mother abandoned me in a cardboard box at a supermarket when I was an infant — two decades later, she reached out to me for assistance
Sue was left in a cardboard box as a small child. Luckily, a store clerk took her home and changed the course of her entire life. Now, in the form of an unexpected knock at the door, Sue has to face her past and the disappointment that comes with it. Is this a grand reunion or the biggest disappointment of Sue’s life?
I was left in a cardboard box in a supermarket twenty years ago. I was just a few months old, and all I had to my name were a few photos of my mother and a note.
The note read: I will always love you, Sue.
Nobody knew my surname or whether I had a middle name. Nobody seemed to know my mother or what had happened to my father. I was all alone in a world that didn’t know anything about me.
But even then, at a few months old, I seemed to be fortune’s fool. I was found by a kind store clerk, Ruby, who took me in.
“I couldn’t leave you there, Sue,” she would say whenever the story came up. “I became your guardian shortly after and raised you as my own. You became my little bug.”
Ruby was everything to me. And as I grew, the closer we became.
I was forever grateful that she gave me everything I needed. But still, I never stopped wondering why my mother left me and if she would ever come back.
“I know that it bothers you, darling,” Ruby told me one day as she made lasagna for dinner. “But she’s an enigma now. We have nothing that could lead us to her.”
“I know,” I said, grating more cheese for when the dish was ready. “It’s just frustrating when I start thinking about it.”
“You love the internet, you love social media, Sue. Use it, share your story, maybe it will resonate with people, and you can connect with others just like you.”
She opened the oven and put the tray of lasagna inside.
So I did just that, and I became a well-known video blogger, sharing my story with the world.
“You’ve created a safe platform for people to share their stories, too,” Ruby told me when I read comments from my latest video to her.
“It means something to me,” I said, helping myself to the eclairs on the table.
Fast forward to the present. I am successful and able to provide for myself and my guardian.
“So much for being an abandoned baby,” I said to myself as I washed my face one night.
But imagine my surprise when an unexpected knock on my door changed everything.
I opened the door to find a frail, older woman standing there, her eyes filled with regret and desperation.
“Sue, darling,” she said. “I am your mother, and I need your help!”
I just looked at her, unable to blink for fear of missing the moment.
“Do you still have the note I left with you when I left you safely in the store?”
Safely? I thought to myself. I stood there, paralyzed by the flood of emotions that had come in when she entered my home.
“Yes, I have it,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I kept it.”
“I know I have no right to ask for your help after what I did, but I need you to believe me when I say I had no choice back then. I was running from a dangerous situation. And I thought leaving you in a safe place was the only way to protect you. I needed to disappear.”
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