After I Woke Up, My Husband and Son Regretted Loving His Childhood Friend More
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On my birthday, my husband’s childhood friend, Rachel Quinn, posted pictures on social
media of the brand–new robot my husband and son had built for her.
I casually gave it a thumbs–up. Not long after, my husband called to scold me:
“We gave you one too, didn’t we? And Max even made you a cake himself. What else could you possibly want?”
But Rachel’s robot was obviously the latest model. Even the cake my son made for her was bigger than mine.
They loved me, sure–but they loved Rachel a little bit more.
Maybe it was time for me to love them a little less.
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When my husband and son got home, the clock had just struck midnight.
The untouched cake still sat on the table. The card read: “Happy Birthday, Mom!”
“Why didn’t you eat the cake? Were you waiting for us to come home and celebrate?”
My husband forced a smile as he and Max lit the candles and sang me a birthday song.
But instead of feeling touched, I felt suffocated. I waved them off. “I’m not hungry. You
two eat.”
My husband’s expression immediately darkened.,
“I know you’re upset about Rachel. But can’t you understand her situation? She doe d have any family here. She had a tough day at work today, so Max and I just went to cheer her up. That’s all. Stop overthinking it.”
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Max chimed in, “Yeah, Mom. Rachel’s all alone. Can’t you be a little more understanding?”
Looking at the father and son tag–teaming me, my heart felt colder than an ice cavern.
It was my birthday, yet they left me to comfort someone else.
Every time I got angry about how they prioritized Rachel over me, they’d trot out this same excuse. It always made me feel like I was the unreasonable one, like I was the villain.
And every time, I’d end up crying alone late at night. But the next day, all it took was a kind word, or a small gift, and I’d forgive them. I’d go right back to being the mom and wife they took for granted.
This time, though, I was tired of playing along.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “You should go spend time with her. I’ll celebrate with my
friends instead.”
I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.
The two of them were stunned, frozen in place, clearly not expecting this response.
When my husband finally realized I was serious, he quickly rushed over to grab my arm.
“You’re forty years old. Can you stop acting like a child? I’m busy with work, and Max is swamped with school. We still made time to celebrate with you, but it’s never enough, is it? We’re exhausted, you know?”
Exhausted?
I stared at them coldly. They weren’t too tired to build Rachel a cutting–edge robot. They weren’t too tired to bake her a cake the size of a serving platter.
But for me? They handed me an outdated model and a cake made from scraps, and that was somehow too much effort.
“You’re overthinking it,” I said, voice icy. “I’m not upset. I just want to spend my birthday with my friends for a change. I haven’t done that in years.”
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“Mom! Enough with the drama!” Max suddenly snapped, slamming his hand down on the table. The cake tipped over, and the candles nearly set the tablecloth on fire.
Lately, Max had been under a lot of pressure at school, and his temper was always on edge. Every time he lashed out, I’d patiently comfort him, no matter how much it hurt.
But this time, I stayed silent.
Seeing my lack of reaction, his anger flared even more. He started punching the
furniture, kicking over chairs.
“What do you want from us? Why can’t you just leave me and Dad alone? You’ve been emotionally manipulating us for years. Is it not enough? Do you want to drive us insane before you’re satisfied?”
Watching him scream and destroy the living room, I felt nothing but a deep, hollow
sadness.
All these years, I’d poured my heart into this family. And now, on my fortieth birthday, just because I wanted a little bit of extra attention, I was branded a control freak.
What a failure I’d become.
I laughed bitterly, tears stinging my eyes, as my husband rushed to comfort Max. He turned to me with a grim look, his voice cold.
“Look at what you’ve done to him. Do you even deserve to be a mother? If you’re so unhappy, why don’t we just get a divorce?”
Every time I argued with him, he’d throw that line at me. And every time, I’d back down
out of fear.
But this time, I didn’t care anymore.
“Fine,” I said.
Their shocked faces were the last thing I saw before walking out the door.
