Craig wanted to talk. We'd been circling that conversation for weeks. Little fights that never fully ended, long silences after laughter, the smell of weed clinging to everything even when he swore he'd quit. I still loved who he could be when he was sober, steady, kind. The man who once made me feel seen. But that version of him had been slipping further away every day. I went over that night thinking we'd talk about getting help. Maybe taking a break. Maybe figuring out how to fix what was quietly breaking between us.
I wasn't expecting a speech. But he'd clearly been rehearsing. We sat on his bed, the air thick with smoke and tension, and he said it like he was doing me a favor. "I love you. You're perfect for me. You're such a good woman. But I can't do this anymore."
My stomach dropped. "Do what?"
"Be a dad." That stopped me cold. He took a slow breath, like this was the most reasonable thing in the world. "I'm not dad material. I can't handle your kids. They're horrible sometimes. You let them walk all over you. You should backhand them once in a while. Teach them respect."
I just stared at him. "You want me to what?"
"I'm saying you're too soft. You're a good mom, but you let them get away with everything. And you'll never put me first. That's the problem." The room went very, very quiet. Because this wasn't really about discipline. This was about competition.
I suddenly thought about the day I watched him scream in his daughter's face, full-volume, military-grade screaming, over something as small as spilled juice. His face red, veins standing out in his neck, barking at her like she was a recruit instead of a child. I had warned him then. If you ever talk to my kids like that, we're done.
Now I realized he hadn't changed. He'd just been waiting. His voice softened then, sugar coating the knife. "Look… we could start over," he said gently. "Move to Colorado. I know how much you loved it there. We could relax. Just live."
I frowned slightly, not yet understanding where he was going.
"You could be the fun mom," he continued. "The one who gets the kids for holidays. Summer vacations. Imagine how much they'd love Colorado summers with you. You'd still see them, you just wouldn't be tied down by them."
And there it was. Not freedom. Abandonment, dressed up like an adventure brochure. I said quietly, "You want me to leave my kids. With their father."
He shrugged. Like this was logistics. "They'd be fine. You'd still see them." He actually smiled when he said it. Like he'd solved something. Like I was supposed to feel relieved.
"You think my kids are what's holding me back?" I asked.
"I think you'd be happier without the stress," he said easily. "You'd finally get to have a life."
And here is the part I don't like admitting. For a moment…
I saw it. The mountains. The quiet. A version of me that wasn't constantly exhausted or stretched thin or wondering if I was failing someone every five minutes. Because the truth, the ugly, buried truth, was that he had found my deepest insecurity and pressed directly on the bruise. I never felt like I was enough for my kids. Not patient enough. Not calm enough. Not whole enough. Some small, hurting part of me had always wondered if they deserved better than me. He saw that and he used it.
He painted a version of me that was lighter. Freer. Happier. A woman who wasn't drowning in responsibility. God help me…
For a flicker of a moment, I understood the temptation. If their dad had been decent, if I had trusted he would keep them safe. I cannot swear that version of freedom wouldn't have pulled at me harder. That's the part people don't talk about. How exhaustion makes dangerous things look reasonable. How being needed all the time can make escape feel holy. But even in that moment, I knew the truth. He wasn't offering me happiness. He was offering me an exit. He was selling it like salvation.
"I can't put you before my kids," I said quietly. "They come first. Always."
He leaned back like I'd proven his point. "And that's why this won't work."
Like a mic drop. Like he'd won something. I didn't argue. Because you cannot build a future with someone who sees your children as obstacles. You cannot save a man who has already decided to quit being a father.
A few months later, I heard he gave up custody of his daughter. Just signed the papers and walked away. Said he wasn't "cut out for it." Maybe he wasn't.
But I was. Even when I doubted it. Even when I was exhausted. Even when I felt like I was failing in slow motion. Because choosing my kids didn't make me smaller. It made me enough.
If you're a single mom reading this, if you've ever sat on the edge of your bed wondering if your kids would be better off without you, hear me clearly: They wouldn't. You are their person. The one who stays. The one who shows up. The one who keeps loving them even when you're running on fumes and cold coffee. I know it's hard. I know it's lonely. But it is worth it. You are not holding them back. You are the reason they know what love looks like. Keep going, mama. You were always enough.