After giving birth, I had an oversupply of breast milk, so I stored it in breast milk storage bags and kept them in the freezer.
Every few days, my husband, David Miller, would take two bags with him when he went out.
It was always at night. He said our neighbor had also just given birth and didn’t have enough breast milk for her baby.
“Neighbors should help each other more than distant relatives ever could,” he explained.
I nodded and agreed at first.
But this time, I opened the freezer, dumped all the milk into a plastic bag, and handed it to him.
“Take it all to the neighbor—and while you’re at it, sign the divorce papers too.”
Our babies were born less than two weeks apart, in the same hospital, delivered by the same doctor.
Since I had too much milk and didn’t want it to go to waste, I froze it all in storage bags.
The neighbor, Emily Brooks, couldn’t produce enough, so her baby was often hungry.
David volunteered to bring my milk over.
At first, I thought it was fine—after all, it was for the sake of a child.
But over time, I noticed something odd.
Emily’s parents occasionally visited, but most of the time she was alone with the baby.
David often used “helping with the baby” as an excuse to go over there.
And once he went, he’d stay for hours—sometimes not coming home until after midnight.
Just today, right after work, he rushed over without even saying hello.
That was when I threw all the milk into a bag and told him to take it—and sign the divorce papers.
David froze, frowned, and demanded to know what I meant.
“Why are you suddenly talking about divorce? Do you have to be so selfish?”
He said helping a neighbor was a good deed, even a blessing.
Then he accused me of being petty—something he claimed he’d never noticed back when we were dating.
What could I say?
I simply answered with indifference, “Yes, I’m petty. I can’t stand this sort of thing.”
“You like going next door? Then go as much as you want.”
“You’re admitting it?” David asked, stunned.
“Of course. Now just sign.”
In all these years of marriage, I’d never seen him so passionate.
Every three days, he’d go over, staying for hours at a time.
I asked him why. He brushed me off, saying Emily needed to shower, cook, and do chores, so there was no one to watch her baby.
Doesn’t that sound ridiculous?
My in-laws, Robert Miller and Margaret Miller, happened to be there too.
They looked at me as if I were the unreasonable one.
Margaret tried to persuade me:
“Rachel, you’re being unfair. My son didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He’s just too kind-hearted to let that young woman raise her baby alone.”
“Yes, Rachel, you know what kind of person David is,” Robert added, taking the chance to lecture me as well.
So I asked, “Doesn’t the neighbor have a husband? Parents? Relatives?”
“Of course she does,” David replied. “But we live closest. Shouldn’t we lend a hand?”
He always had some excuse ready.
I was tired of it. I shook my head and said, “That’s why I never stopped you. I just want a divorce.”
“Just like that? We’ve been married five years—we even have a child now—and you’re saying divorce?”
“Do you even know that Emily has postpartum depression?” David asked.
I knew her name, of course—Emily Brooks, twenty-four or twenty-five years old.
But I hadn’t expected him to say it so intimately.
“Postpartum depression? Really?” I asked coldly.
“How exactly is she depressed? Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
