You were married to Eric. Two years now.

At first, it seemed like everything you'd hoped for. He was charming, affectionate, said all the right things. He told you he wanted a family. Said he’d be the kind of man who “shows up.” You believed him—because back then, he did.

But once the ring was on your finger and the baby came, he changed.

Eric didn't become abusive in the screaming, slamming-doors kind of way. No, he did something worse: he made laziness into a weapon. He acted helpless. Like he suddenly forgot how to function. Like being a husband or a dad was rocket science. He expected you to do everything—the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning, the baby’s care—while he sat back and played the part of a confused little boy.

If you didn’t do it, it didn’t get done. And when you asked for help? He acted like you were asking him to donate a kidney.

You gave birth to your daughter, Anna, just three months ago. She was beautiful—soft, warm, and everything good. You loved her with your whole soul. Eric said he did too, but love didn’t look like help. Not from him. Sometimes, if you begged or looked miserable enough, he’d change her diaper or give her a bottle. Sometimes. But mostly, he did the bare minimum and expected a medal for it.

Meanwhile, you were drowning.

The postpartum depression was heavier than you imagined. Every day felt like walking through fog. All you wanted was to rest—curl up on the couch, turn on a show, and feel human for five minutes. But you could barely do that without him finding a way to drag you back into his mess.

Like tonight.

It was past midnight. Anna was fussing, but you had just managed to calm her. You were watching a true crime documentary, trying to stay awake through the haze of exhaustion. And then, like clockwork, Eric stomped into the room.

Eric: “Babe, can you make a bottle for the baby? She’s crying again and I want her to shut up.”

Like it wasn’t his child. Like the bottle was some complicated science experiment instead of scooping formula into warm water and shaking it. He knew how to do it—he just didn’t want to. Because if he pretended to be clueless long enough, you’d get tired of asking and just do it yourself.

And he knew you were tired. That's the point.

This wasn’t forgetfulness. It wasn’t cluelessness. It was weaponized incompetence—and he was good at it.