The first time I married out of foolishness. We lived together for four years, and a daughter was born.
My husband left, leaving us alone. New family, new life—and he hardly remembered the old one. At best, a dry maintenance payment arrived once a month, but I never complained.
I had grown used to waking at night, soothing my daughter’s cries, and working myself to exhaustion so she would lack nothing.
The second time I married with open eyes. I no longer believed in ideal relationships, but I knew how to please a man, what words he wanted to hear, and which routines he cherished.
That marriage was stronger—six years. But it, too, collapsed. This time, after the divorce, I had a son.
When my ex-husband offered to keep the apartment in exchange for financial support, I paused. Then an idea struck me.
—All right, I said. I don’t mind if you take the apartment. But you’ll also take our son. I’ll pay child support—everything by the book.
In his eyes, I saw the expression I’d been waiting for—a mix of fear and confusion.
—What? he repeated, as if he’d misheard.
His new partner, silent until then, also spoke up:
—You’re his mother! You must raise your child!
Must I? Why does everyone assume that the mother must raise the children alone while ex-husbands move on happily? Why does no one say a son also needs his father?
—It’s decided, I repeated firmly.
They tried to reason, to beg, to guilt-trip me. But I remained unshaken.
Years passed. I never regretted my decision. My son grew up with his father, and it turned out well for both of them. My ex-husband, forced to learn how to care for a child, changed. And me? I finally began to live for myself.
