Let me ask you a question. Have you ever encountered a level of sheer, unadulterated audacity that actually left you completely speechless? I don’t mean a rude coworker or a neighbor who parks across your driveway. I am talking about the kind of jaw-dropping, narcissistic delusion that makes you look around for hidden cameras because you cannot believe a human being is actually behaving this way in real life.

If you haven’t, pull up a chair. Let me tell you about my ex.

We need to rewind the clock a bit to fully appreciate the punchline of this story. Twelve years ago, I was standing in our shared kitchen, staring at a man packing a duffel bag. I was exactly six months pregnant. My ankles were swollen, my back ached constantly, and I was deeply, physically invested in the creation of a new human life.

He zipped up the bag, looked me dead in the eye, and delivered a line so pathetic I still occasionally laugh about it in the shower. He left me while I was six months pregnant with his child, and his reason? He claimed he simply wasn’t ready for “massive fatherly responsibility.”

Those were his exact words. Massive fatherly responsibility. He said it as though he had suddenly been drafted into a war he fundamentally opposed, rather than acknowledging that he had enthusiastically participated in making this baby. He told me he needed to “find himself” and that the pressure of a child was going to stifle his potential. At thirty-two years old, he was terrified of growing up. So, he walked out the front door, got into his sedan, and drove out of my life, leaving me with a mortgage, a nursery half-painted in pale yellow, and a baby kicking my ribs.

I won’t lie and say I was immediately fine. I was devastated. I was terrified. But women—especially mothers—have a survival instinct that activates when the chips are down. You don’t have the luxury of falling apart when you are the sole life support system for someone else.

Three months later, I gave birth entirely alone.