When my husband got back from his week away, he figured he’d stroll right in like everything was normal. Instead, he ran into someone in his path—a bright yellow suitcase and a face burning with anger. The scared look that hit his face made up for every tear I’d shed.

Looking back, I should’ve spotted the red flags about Ryan’s true self way before our wedding day.

He’d always been the guy who picked his buddies over everything and dodged hard stuff with lame excuses.

Back when we dated, I shrugged it off as him just being young and wild. I kept telling myself marriage would fix him, that real life would force him to grow up.

Right after we got engaged, Ryan acted better for a bit. He gushed about our future and swore all the sweet promises of being a solid husband.

“We’re gonna be an awesome team, Aria,” he’d say, grabbing my hands and staring right into my eyes. “I can’t wait to start our life together.”

I bought it hook, line, and sinker. I needed to believe it.

Eight months after tying the knot, I got pregnant, and Ryan was thrilled out of his mind. He spent weekends slapping yellow paint on the nursery walls and putting together the crib so carefully that I figured this was it. Maybe dad life would turn him into the steady guy I’d waited for.

“This kid’s gonna have the world’s best dad,” he’d murmur to my round belly at night. He cracked open baby books and chatted about all he wanted to show our little one. Those months had me full of hope, seeing him gear up for fatherhood like a pro.

But then real life smacked us hard.

My pregnancy went south at 37 weeks. A smooth delivery turned into an emergency C-section when things went wrong fast.

The docs moved quick, and lucky for us, our sweet girl Sophie came out just fine. But the cut left me wiped out, hurting bad, and stuck needing help for the simplest things.

“Don’t stress, babe,” Ryan promised as I lay foggy in the hospital bed from the meds. “I’ll handle everything for you and Sophie once we’re home. You just rest and heal, got it?”

Those first days back were a haze of no sleep, sore wound checks, and figuring out nursing.

Ryan pitched in a little, but I saw he was stressed and out of his depth.

He’d swap a diaper if I begged, but never jumped in on his own. He’d cuddle Sophie when she was chill, but the second she fussed, she’d land right back in my lap.

“I think she needs her mom” turned into his go-to line whenever it got real.

By week four, I was beat to the bone. My scar still throbbed, and shuffling from bed to kitchen had me grimacing the whole way.

That’s when Ryan dropped the wildest bomb.

“So, Jason nailed that job bump he’s chased forever,” Ryan tossed out one morning, eyes glued to his phone. “The crew wants to mark it with a full-week beach bash. Sounds killer.”

I gawked at him, sure a joke was coming. When it didn’t, my chest tightened.

“That’s cool for Jason,” I said slow. “When’s it set?”

“Next week. Spot-on timing since he can swing a swanky resort now. Gonna be a blast!”

“Ryan,” I said careful, “you’re not for real thinking of tagging along, right?”

He glanced up at last, and I caught that defensive scowl brewing. “Why not? It’s only seven days. Jason’s my top bud, and this is huge for him.”

It felt like a bad dream. “Your wife had big surgery four weeks back? I can hardly hobble to the mailbox without hurting? We’ve got a tiny newborn who needs us both?”

Ryan dropped his phone and let out a big sigh, like I was the crazy one.

“Babe, you’re killing it with Sophie. And Mom said she’d swing by if you need a hand. Just a week.”

“Your mom lives an hour out, Ryan. And I shouldn’t need backup—my husband should be here.” My tone climbed, but I couldn’t rein it in. “I can’t even hoist stuff heavier than the baby. Can’t drive. How’s this even up for debate?”

“Listen, I’ve been fried too, alright?” Ryan hopped up and paced. “This whole parent gig’s a lot for us both. A quick breather might help everybody.”

A breather? He wanted time off from his month-old girl and his wife who could hardly fend for herself?

“Fine,” I snapped. “Go. Enjoy your trip.”

Ryan’s mug lit up like he hit the jackpot. “For real? You’re cool with it?”

I wasn’t cool with it. Never would be. But I knew fighting more would just paint me as the bad guy in his tale.

He pecked my forehead like it was no big deal. “You’re the greatest, Aria. I’ll square it when I’m back, swear.”

Next morning, I peeked from the window as his ride hauled him to the airport, leaving me clutching our wailing girl.

That week without Ryan dragged like forever—the toughest seven days ever.

Each dawn, I’d wake wishing it was a nightmare, that my man hadn’t ditched us in our weakest spot. But Sophie’s cries would hit, slamming me back to truth.

Early days were rough. Sophie hit a growth spurt, nursing round the clock.

I’d park in one chair for hours, scared to shift much with the ache.

Ryan’s messages trickled in sparse. “Beach is epic! Sun’s blazing!” popped with a snap of him and Jason toasting brews.

Next came a shot of upscale eats, tagged “Seafood heaven!”

I’d glare at those while Sophie howled in my hold and my top soaked in puke, baffled how he tuned out our mess at home.

Day five, I ran on fumes and panic.

I’d rung his mom, Linda, twice, but guilt gnawed at bugging her. She had her own world, and this was his mess to own—he’d picked sand and sun over us.

Rock bottom hit day six when Sophie spiked a low fever. I dialed the kid doc in freak-out mode. The nurse walked me through red flags, but I felt lost and terrified solo.

That night, I buzzed Ryan thrice. No pickup.

At last, homecoming day rolled in.

I knew his flight deets from the scrap on the counter, tossed like junk. Morning flew by trying to fix my look—tough when sleep’s capped at two-hour chunks for a week.

Deep down, I clung to hope he’d barge in sorry and set to fix us.

Tires crunched the drive at 3 p.m.

My pulse hammered as I spied from the pane. Ryan hopped out tanned and chill, worlds from the drained wreck he’d left behind.

But hold up—another ride idled in the drive. Linda’s.

And there she stood on the porch, face set like stone, the grimmest I’d seen. A screaming yellow bag hulked beside her, like she aimed to camp out.

Ryan neared the door grinning, but spotting Mom in his path drained his color to ghost.

“Mom?” Ryan’s tone cracked like a kid’s. “What’re you doing here?”

Linda folded her arms and dug in her heels. “No entry till we hash this out big time, Ryan.”

Ryan reeled back, his beach vibe crumbling quick.

“Mom, not now. Not out here.” He darted eyes like nosy folks might gawk.

“Oh, it’s happening right here,” Linda fired. “You ditched your wife—fresh off major surgery—with a brand-new baby for a week to goof on the sand with pals. Know how risky that was?”

I hovered inside the door, cradling Sophie, tears pricking. No one had backed me like this in ages.

“It wasn’t risky,” Ryan mumbled weak. “Aria’s good. Baby’s fine. All sorted.”

“All sorted?” Linda’s pitch spiked like never. “Ryan, your wife hit me up twice this week, wiped out and spooked. Dealt a fever freak alone ’cause you ghosted calls for drinks.”

Ryan flushed beet. “I was off! Needed the downtime!”

“Downtime?” Linda advanced, and he tripped back. “Your wife needed a teammate. Your girl needed her dad. They got nada but a bailout when it counted.”

I piped up shaky but sure. “Linda’s spot on, Ryan. You bailed when I could hardly manage me, let alone a baby.”

Ryan swung to me, eyes pleading. “Babe, seriously? Teaming with Mom against me? One week, that’s it.”

“One week that stretched forever,” I shot. “One week I doubted our whole marriage. One week I saw you bolt when it gets rough.”

Linda jabbed her bag. “Packed for two weeks flat. If you’re not manning up as hubby and dad, I’ll bunk here and prop Aria. But no strutting in like it’s all good.”

Ryan ping-ponged stares between us, clocking his smooth talk was toast.

“This is nuts,” he grumbled low, spark gone.

“Nuts is a grown guy picking a getaway over his crew’s safety,” Linda zinged. “I taught you better, Ryan. Your dad’d hang his head.”

That stung him real—Dad’d been gone three years, and that jab sliced true.

Ryan froze another beat. Then he spun and trudged street-ward.

“Where to?” I hollered.

“Jason’s,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Since my own roof’s off-limits now.”

As his next ride peeled out, Linda faced me, eyes misty. “I’m gutted, sweetie. Didn’t raise him to ghost his own like that.”

I lost it then, bawling harder than the whole week. Linda eased Sophie from me and pulled me into the coziest squeeze in forever.

“You’re not flying solo anymore,” she breathed. “Never again.”

How do you think Linda’s intervention affected Ryan and his relationship with Aria? Do you think it was a turning point for him?