He Might Be an Asshole, But He’s My Asshole

Almost a year after giving birth, I decided to go back to work. The nanny was supposed to pick up our child and drop them back off. My husband started his workday later than me, but I still had to get our child ready for the nanny while he was sleeping. After work, instead of coming straight home, he preferred to go to the bar twice a week with his colleagues or his friends, who still aren’t parents. So I had to keep explaining that he needed to stop using his friends as an excuse to go to the bar. His life changed the moment his heir came out of my womb. But in his mind, that didn’t make sense. He asked to pay the nanny more so she would bring the baby back around 8 or 9 p.m. I mean, for real? How can someone so well educated, with so many degrees, be so stupid and immature with his own family? It’s beyond me. Then the crises started again. Me crying in the shower. Me crying in front of him. Me calling his parents. His parents talked to him, especially his mother, who is partly responsible for her son’s bad behavior. Me calling my mother, explaining, I mean complaining, about his immaturity, and she started telling me she had never seen my dad change their kids’ diapers, and she never complained about it. Some of my friends were like, “But at least he doesn’t cheat on you,” or “He’s not violent,” or “At least he pays the rent,” or “At least he put THE ring on your finger.” So because of all these shitty reasons, he can do whatever he wants? At home, the tension was palpable. At work, many times before walking into the office, I went to the bathroom to redo my mascara because I had been crying. One day, one of my colleagues asked what had happened. I said nothing. The third time he asked, I answered. His name was Juda.