So, today, I was talking to my husband about us both taking paternity and maternity leave at the same time. You know, so that he could help me out with the baby and my recovery.
But then he drops this bombshell: he talked to his boss, and his boss wouldn’t let him take leave because of some big project.
Even worse, he hinted that my husband could get fired if he didn’t go to another city for a few months to handle this project! I was super upset, but we really need his job since I won’t be able to work for a while. So, I just had to accept it.
A few days later, I bumped into his boss’s wife at the grocery store. We kinda knew each other from university, and she was all friendly, asking about the baby. I couldn’t help it and snapped, saying something like, “Well, if your husband approved paternity leave and didn’t send new dads away for work, things would be better.” She looked so confused and said, “Actually, your husband is on paternity leave. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I was FLOORED. I rushed home, and he was in the shower, with his phone just there on the table. I don’t usually do this, but something told me to check it. I was ready to find anything – another woman, debts, whatever. But it took me two seconds to find his real reason, and I WENT PALE AS I SAW HIS TEXTS WITH …his co-workers’ group chat.
The thread was called “League Legends—Weekday Warriors.” At first glance it looked harmless: gifs, memes, the usual office banter. But then I saw the pinned message from my husband, posted two weeks earlier:
“Confirmed paternity leave approved! 🙌
I’ll be at Phil’s place weekdays, 9–5, grinding ranked matches.
Wife thinks I’m on the road for a special project—don’t blow my cover.
LAN finals in Austin are in June, boys. Let’s win this thing and split the prize money.”
My knees gave out. He’d invented a months-long business trip—risking our only income—so he could spend his paid leave competing in an online gaming league with his buddies.
Just then the shower stopped. I still had the phone in my hand when he stepped out, towel around his waist, humming like nothing was wrong.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about your leave?” I asked. My voice was shaking so hard the words came out in a whisper.
His eyes flicked to the phone—the guilty flash said it all. He started babbling: he’d planned to surprise me with the prize money, thought it could pay off the hospital bills, swore he’d still be home every night. “It’s just… I’ve dreamed of going pro since college,” he said. “This is my one shot before the baby comes.”
I could almost hear Grandma’s vase cracking as my grip tightened around it. “Your one shot? We have an infant due in three weeks, and you chose a video-game fantasy over diaper duty?”
He tried logic first: the team could win $50,000; he’d practice during the day and “help me in the evenings.” When that failed, he shifted to guilt: hadn’t I ever chased a dream? Finally he reached for pity—said he was terrified of fatherhood and needed a way to feel competent at something.
“I need you to feel competent as a dad, not as a digital warrior,” I snapped.
The Ultimatum
That night I packed a hospital bag and slept in the guest room. In the morning I wrote a three-line note and slid it under the nursery door where he’d retreated:
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Call your boss and rescind the leave lies.
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Tell your team you’re out—family comes first.
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Book a counseling appointment for us today.
“If you can’t do all three by sunset,” I added, “I’ll be at my sister’s. And you can explain to HR why your ‘business trip’ never left town.”
The Course Correction
He spent the next hour on speakerphone. First to his boss—full confession. Miraculously, HR agreed to convert the paternity leave back to normal vacation days if he reported to work remotely until the baby arrived. Then came the awkward call to his gamer crew; the silence after “I’m out” was louder than any argument we’d ever had. Finally, he messaged a counselor and landed us a virtual session for that evening.
When he emerged, his eyes were red-rimmed but clear. “I messed up,” he said. “I was scared. I thought if I brought home prize money, it would balance out. But I see now it was selfish.”
I let him sweat a beat before nodding. “Scared I can handle,” I said. “Dishonest I can’t. This is your second chance—use it.”
Two Weeks Later
Our daughter arrived in a rush at 3 a.m. He held my hand through every contraction, counted every breath, cut the cord with tears streaming down his cheeks. At home, he changes diapers on the first cry, rocks her at 4 a.m., and leaves the PlayStation powered down.
The counseling continues—one hour each Thursday night, baby monitor balanced between us. We talk about fear, about ego, about how honesty isn’t a luxury but the minimum price of partnership.
Will I forget the lie? Probably not. But every time he sings lullabies instead of shouting into a headset, trust stitches itself back together—one tiny loop at a time.
And the championship in Austin? It came and went without him. His former team placed third, splitting $5,000 five ways. He says he doesn’t regret missing it.
He already won the prize that matters most, swaddled in his arms, breathing softly against his heart.
