I told them, “If you need money, just ask. What matters most is that you enjoy yourselves.”
And so, half a year passed like this.
Her trips increased from once every three months to once every two weeks.
Even when Anna cried in hunger, she would ignore her, leaving me to prepare formula milk.
Each time she came back, she looked rejuvenated, glowing, full of energy.
She thought I didn’t notice—but I understood everything.
Emily sobbed softly, asking pitifully:
“Daniel, did I do something wrong?
I admit I haven’t taken care of Anna lately… but I can’t help it. Every time I see her, I just want to cry.”
My mother-in-law tried to mediate:
“Daniel, we can help take care of the baby. Don’t be so rash.”
I shook my head. I was long past disappointment with Emily.
“I don’t want to drag this on. Tomorrow we’re going to the county clerk’s office to file for divorce.”
“If you don’t want to raise Anna, fine. I’ll raise her myself.”
In half a year, Emily had nursed Anna fewer times than I could count on one hand.
She kept claiming she had insufficient milk supply, or that her postpartum depression made it impossible.
I tried to understand, even offering comfort again and again.