The Year I Nearly Lost Everything

E. was born on February 2nd. I had worked 22 hours straight before we went to the hospital. I fell asleep around 4 a.m. and woke up to the nurses entering. You were nearly ready to push. By 7 a.m., I was holding your hand again. But you looked at me like I had failed some sacred test. That night, you told me I was a terrible husband and father for falling asleep during your labor. I said I was exhausted. I asked you to take it back. You didn’t. You slapped me. In a hospital. I left, not because I didn’t care, but because I knew what happened when I stayed. I returned 30 minutes later. Tried to act like nothing happened. Tried to be supportive. Tried to be enough.

A week later, Child Protective Services showed up. You’d tested positive for codeine in E.’s cord blood. You said it was a mistake. I believed you. I defended you. But you still said I had accused you of being a drug addict. You held that against me for months. Twisted it into betrayal. Another reason you couldn’t trust me. All I had done was stand beside you while the walls fell in.

Then came the talk of an open marriage. You said you couldn’t be happy with just me. You said it every week. Calmly sometimes, mid-argument other times. You blamed my weight, my stress, my exhaustion. You said I wasn’t desirable. That being with one man could never be enough for you. When I resisted, you told me it was going to happen whether or not I agreed.

You hit me often. Arguments never ended in conversation. They ended in bruises. One assault was so bad I called my father. He sat down with you, tried to talk you through it. You agreed to get help. You were diagnosed with bipolar disorder. You started medication. For a while, it helped. Then you stopped. Said it muted you. Said you didn’t feel like yourself.

You said you didn’t want the dog anymore. Said if I didn’t rehome him, you’d let him loose. That was your answer to everything. Remove what overwhelmed you. And every time, that thing was me or something I loved.

Then came the spiritual unraveling. You said you didn’t believe in God anymore. That you might be a lesbian. That you were finally figuring out who you were. I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do. I was trying to keep our lives from collapsing.

In June, we bought a new car. I thought it might help. I thought giving you what you asked for might make you feel safe. We even went on a short vacation. On the drive home, you said it again. You wanted an open marriage. Whether or not I agreed, it was going to happen.

By August, it did. You started online relationships. Reddit threads. Nude photos. Cybersex. I found the messages. You didn’t deny it. You just said there was nothing to fix. That I could try to win you back, but you wouldn’t try to win me.

Then came the night everything broke. The confrontation. The affair laid bare. For the first time, I told you to leave. I meant it. I booked you a hotel. I thought I was setting a boundary. I thought protecting myself didn’t have to feel like punishment.

But within hours, you were texting goodbye. Saying you were going to end your life. Asking me to take care of the kids. That they didn’t deserve a mother like you. That me asking you to leave was proof you had nothing left. I called my father. Told him where you were. He found you alive but unraveling, and drove you to the psych ward himself. Quiet. Focused. Like he knew exactly what was at stake.

I stayed home with the boys. I told them nothing. I cleaned the living room. Folded laundry. Held the silence like a glass I couldn’t afford to drop.

When you came home, the story changed. You said it hadn’t really happened. Said I had overreacted. That I had abandoned you. But I knew the truth. I hadn’t abandoned you. I had finally stopped abandoning myself.

I left the house. Stayed with a friend. Still came back to help with the kids. You weren’t cooperative. You left them alone while you had phone sex in the next room. I found out you gave our address to someone you met online. Someone calling from a contraband phone inside a prison cell. Still serving ten-plus years for a violent crime. You didn’t even learn his name. You just called him "babe."

Then came the addict. You met him at a bar while I was home with the kids. You started seeing him regularly, until you found out why his ex-wife left. But you didn’t stop. Later that year, he died of a fentanyl overdose. You mourned him like a widow.

I tried to hold the rest together. Asked for a sabbatical at work to deal with the chaos. They said no. I missed more days. I got fired.

I caught you more than once, on camera, for strangers. You didn’t stop. Didn’t apologize. You said you had needs. That I wasn’t enough.

Then came the one you called "the one who got away." Nearly twice your age. You made plans to sleep with him in exchange for a car. You said it didn’t happen. I didn’t know what to believe. After he ghosted you, you said you wanted to try again. That you missed our family. I didn’t trust it, but I was desperate enough to believe you might mean it.

We went to counseling. Four sessions. You quit. Said the therapist and I were ganging up on you. Said the affair was the medication’s fault. You stopped taking your meds again. The violence returned. This time it wasn’t just yelling. It was thrown objects. Raised fists. Split skin.

Then came the final signal. We were supposed to leave for a trip. I got the call. The addict you loved had died. I told you. And I watched you collapse. You cried like a widow. And in that moment, I knew.

This would never make sense again.