When I found out I was pregnant, I believed in us. I imagined the moment I’d hand our son, Rune, to Halric, his face glowing with joy. But on discharge day, we waited—and waited. I dressed Rune in a tiny onesie, heart full of hope. Halric didn’t show up. When he finally texted, he said he was at a mall sale, choosing shoes over us.

I felt shattered. The nurse saw my pain and offered to drive us home. That drive was the loneliest moment of my life. At home, Halric lounged, unaware of the hurt he caused. When I confronted him, he shrugged it off. That night, I packed a bag and left with Rune.

Halric begged for forgiveness, promising change. I gave him one chance—full-time baby duty. He fumbled, struggled, but didn’t quit. Slowly, he learned to soothe Rune, to be present. One night, tears streamed down his face as he held our son, finally understanding.

From that moment, Halric was different—attentive, loving, a true partner. Shoes no longer mattered. We were finally a family.