My name is Sarah. I am 39 years old. In three days, I will sign my divorce papers.

My mother cries on the phone.
My friends look at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“Are you sure?” they whisper. “He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t cheat. He works. He takes care of the kids. He’s a good husband…”

Yes. It’s true.

Mike is a good man.

But I am not leaving a bad man.
I am leaving a man who spent twelve years beside me without ever truly sharing the responsibility of our life.

Mike’s problem — and the problem of thousands of men like him — can be summed up in one sentence.

A sentence that slowly exhausted me:

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Those words drained my energy.

Quietly.
Day after day.

He “helped.”
But only when I asked.

He washed the dishes if I reminded him.
He picked up the kids if I sent a message.
He did the laundry if I explained how.

Every time.

He executed.
I managed.

I was the CEO of our family.
He was the eternal intern.

Ten years together, and he still didn’t know where we kept the towels.

Everything was on me.

The bills.
Doctor appointments.
School matters.
Birthdays.
Family obligations.

I was a living calendar, a secretary, an accountant, and a therapist.

Without pay.
Without recognition.

One evening, everything collapsed.

We were having dinner. He was scrolling on his phone.

Then he asked:

“My mom’s birthday is on Sunday. What did we get her?”

We.

His mother.
Not mine.

Yet, once again, it was my responsibility.

I looked at him and asked calmly:

“What shoe size does our daughter wear?”

He didn’t know.

“What’s our son’s homeroom teacher’s name?”

Silence.

“When does your car insurance expire?”

Nothing.

“How old will your mom be on Sunday?”

He started counting.

That’s when I realized: I was alone.

He got offended.

“You’re overreacting! You just had to tell me!”

And that was the problem.

“You just had to tell me.”

As if I were his boss.
His planner.
His brain.

That is the mental load.

Thinking for two people.
Remembering everything.
Never truly resting.

Because if you rest, everything falls apart.

The milk runs out.
Appointments are forgotten.
Bills are late.

And you are blamed.

Always.

I was tired.

Tired of being the only adult in the house.

Tired of being the “mother” of a forty-year-old man.

I didn’t get married to become a manager.

I wanted to be a woman.
A partner.
Someone loved.

Not an exhausted coordinator.

I tried to talk.
To explain.
To ask.

He promised.

He tried.

For a while.

Then everything went back to the way it was.

Because it was comfortable for him.

Because I carried everything.

One day, I looked at myself in the mirror.

And I didn’t recognize the woman staring back.

Tired eyes.
Empty gaze.
Heavy shoulders.

I understood: if I stayed, I would disappear.

So I’m leaving.

Yes, I will be a single mother.

But I already was.

I just had one extra “child.”

I will no longer remind.
Control.
Manage.

I want to live.

I want to breathe.

I want to be free.

I’m not leaving out of hatred.

I’m leaving out of exhaustion.

Out of self-respect.

Out of love for myself.

Sometimes, a “good man” never truly grows up.

And I refuse to be his mother anymore.