My husband and I went through labor together. Everything was fine until I started breastfeeding. His face changed as if he was about to vomit. All pale, he ran out. Three hours later, he messaged me, “What you did is absolutely disgusting. You made me sick.”
I stared at the screen, still sore, tired, and with our baby on my chest, latching peacefully. I blinked twice, thinking maybe the exhaustion was messing with my brain. But no, the message was real. He followed up with, “That’s not something a man should have to see. It ruined everything for me.”
We had been married for two years. The pregnancy wasn’t an accident, we had planned it. We were both overjoyed when we found out.
He was sweet through the trimesters, massaged my feet, came to every doctor’s appointment, even read baby books. I really believed I had a supportive partner.
But this? This was something I couldn’t process. Breastfeeding… disgusting?
I didn’t reply right away. I think a part of me hoped he’d apologize. Or say he was joking. But he didn’t.
Instead, he texted again two hours later, “I need space. Don’t expect me back today.”
That first night in the hospital, I was alone. Nurses came and went. My mom visited briefly. But him? He never showed.
My heart hurt more than my body. I wasn’t even angry yet. I just felt empty.
The next day, he came. Brought a small teddy bear for the baby and stood by the window, not coming close.
Didn’t ask how I was. Didn’t touch our daughter. Just mumbled, “I’m still trying to get over what I saw.”
I wanted to scream. But instead, I said, “It’s called feeding your child. That’s what breasts are for. What did you think motherhood looked like?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t think it’d be so… animalistic. There’s nothing sexy about it. I just didn’t expect you to be okay with exposing yourself like that.”
That was the moment I started to feel cold. Like I was watching him through a pane of glass, from a distance.
Something cracked between us that day. Maybe it had already cracked, and I just didn’t see it until now.
When we got home three days later, he was distant. Avoided the baby. Slept in the guest room.
He started going out more, even during his paternity leave. “Clearing my head,” he’d say.
One afternoon, I overheard him on the phone. “I just can’t see her the same. She used to be hot, you know? Now it’s all leaking and crying and… milk.”
He laughed. The kind of laugh that made me feel like I was being laughed at. I closed the nursery door quietly and cried in silence.
I decided to talk to him properly that night. I asked if he wanted to go to therapy. Try to understand his emotions.
He rolled his eyes. “Why do women always think therapy is the answer? Maybe you just changed and I’m not attracted anymore. Is that a crime?”
I nodded slowly. “It’s not a crime. But it’s cruel.” He didn’t respond.
A week passed. Then another. He barely held our baby. Didn’t change a single diaper.
When I told him I needed help, he said, “I didn’t sign up to be your assistant. You wanted to breastfeed, so deal with the rest too.”
That’s when I knew I was alone. Not legally. Not technically. But truly.
Still, I gave it time. Maybe he’d adjust. Maybe this was a weird shock phase. I didn’t want to believe I’d married someone so shallow.
But then came the dinner at his parents’ house. Our baby was about six weeks old.
I started breastfeeding discreetly, with a cover. His mother smiled gently. His father kept eating. No big deal.
But my husband? He stood up from the table and hissed, “Seriously? In front of my dad? You have no shame.”
I was mortified. His mother looked horrified—at him, not me. She whispered, “She’s feeding your child, for heaven’s sake.”
That night, after a full-blown argument, he packed a bag and said he needed a “break from the mom version of me.”
He moved in with a friend “temporarily.”
I was devastated. But oddly… something in me started to wake up.
My days were hard. Tiring. Lonely. But they were filled with love from this tiny little girl who needed me.
Every giggle, every little stretch of her fingers, gave me strength.
I joined a local mom group. Met other women. Heard their stories. Some had helpful partners. Some didn’t.
One woman, a single mom of twins, told me, “Sometimes being alone is better than being with someone who makes you feel lonely.”
Her words stayed with me.
About a month later, my husband messaged me out of nowhere.
“I’ve been thinking. I want to come back. I’ll try to be better. But you’ll need to stop breastfeeding soon. It’s messing with how I see you.”
No apology. No realization. Just more conditions.
I replied, “She depends on me. If you can’t handle that, then don’t come back.”
He came over that weekend anyway. Brought flowers. Tried to kiss me. I turned my face.
“I don’t trust you to love me in all my forms. Wife, mother, tired woman with messy hair and milk stains. You only love one version of me.”
He looked annoyed. “You’re being dramatic. I just want the woman I married back.”
I said quietly, “She’s still here. She just evolved. And you walked out the moment she changed clothes.”
That was the last real conversation we had.
Two weeks later, I filed for separation. And I didn’t cry when I signed the papers.
Life moved on. Slowly. Day by day.
I started working part-time from home. My daughter turned one. Then two.
She was smart. Happy. Strong. And so, so loved.
My ex only visited a few times a year. He didn’t fight for custody. Didn’t offer more than the court required.
And honestly, it was better that way.
Then one day, something unexpected happened. A mutual friend messaged me: “Have you seen what he posted?”
I hadn’t.
Turns out, his new girlfriend had just given birth. I hesitated, but clicked the link.
There he was, smiling in a photo, holding a newborn. The caption?
“Witnessing the miracle of birth and watching her breastfeed our son for the first time brought tears to my eyes. Women are warriors. So much respect.”
My jaw dropped. For a second, I felt rage bubble up. But then something strange happened. I laughed.
It wasn’t bitter. Just… amused. Because life had come full circle.
People evolve. Sometimes they learn the hard way.
I didn’t comment. Didn’t message. I just let it be.
A few days later, he called. Said he wanted to talk. I agreed to meet at a café, for the sake of civility.
He looked tired. A bit older. But his tone was softer.
“I owe you a huge apology,” he began. “I was immature. I didn’t get it. Not until now.”
I nodded. “Took you long enough.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. I deserved that. You were doing the most beautiful thing in the world, and I made you feel ashamed of it. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
I sipped my tea. “I forgave you a long time ago. But that doesn’t mean I forgot.”
He looked down. “I respect you so much now. And I’m sorry I had to become a father again to understand.”
I said, “Some people learn late. But as long as they learn, it’s something.”
He asked if he could be more involved in our daughter’s life. I told him he could try, but she’d decide.
She was old enough now to sense who cared, and who didn’t.
We parted ways politely. No promises. No false hopes. Just a mutual understanding.
Fast forward another year, and I met someone else. His name’s Ruben.
He’s patient. Kind. The kind of man who brings snacks for both of us during playdates. Who washes bottles without being asked. Who cheers me on when I work late.
The first time he saw me breastfeeding, he kissed my forehead and said, “That’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen.”
That moment, I cried.
Not because of sadness. But because I realized I wasn’t broken. I had just been seen through the wrong eyes before.
And now? I’m thriving. As a woman. As a mother. As myself.
Our daughter is five. She’s funny, confident, and tells everyone she has two dads. One that reads bedtime stories, and one that “shows up sometimes.”
Kids have a way of summing things up.
And me? I don’t feel ashamed of any part of my journey.
Here’s what I learned:
Never let anyone make you feel small for doing something beautiful.
Motherhood is messy, raw, sacred—and it deserves to be respected, not hidden.
The right people won’t be disgusted by your strength. They’ll be in awe of it.
If you’re going through something similar, I hope you know this: you are more than enough. You’re doing something heroic every single day.
If this story touched you, share it. Maybe someone out there needs to hear that they’re not alone. ❤️
