When I first got sick, I thought the worst part would be the fever. Or the bone-deep aches. Or the relentless cough that felt like I was being punched from the inside out. But I was wrong. The worst part wasn’t the virus.
It was what it revealed about my husband.
Drew and I have been married for a few years, and six months ago we welcomed our daughter, Sadie, into the world. She’s everything to me — soft little cheeks, a giggle that sounds like magic, eyes that light up when she sees me. I love her more than anything. And maybe that’s what makes this story so painful to tell.
Because when I got sick — truly, knock-you-on-your-back sick — my husband didn’t step up. He stepped out.
It started about a month ago. I caught some wicked virus. Not COVID, not RSV, but something aggressive. My body was a warzone: chills, fever, migraine, nonstop coughing. I was already drained because Sadie had just recovered from her own cold and was extra clingy. I was operating on empty — no sleep, no strength, no backup.
Meanwhile, Drew had been… off. Even before I got sick. He was distracted, always on his phone, chuckling at messages he wouldn’t explain. When I asked, it was always “just work stuff.” He snapped easily — at the dishes, at dinner plans, at nothing at all.
One night, as I rocked Sadie and tried not to cough on her, Drew glanced at me and said, “You always look so exhausted.”
I looked up, deadpan. “Yeah. I’m raising a human.”
I was hoping — praying — that this illness would shake him into action. That he’d finally step into the father and partner role I thought he wanted. That maybe he’d carry some of this with me.
But I was wrong.
The night my fever hit 102.4, I was trembling. Couldn’t sit up, couldn’t eat. I looked at him and croaked, “Can you please take Sadie for a while? I just need to lie down.”
He didn’t even blink. “I can’t. Your coughing’s keeping me up. I need sleep. I think I’m gonna stay at my mom’s for a few nights.”
