I Left My Partner, The Father Of My Newborn, During The Pandemic. I’ve Never Been Happier

I first met Dylan at a concert when I was 23 and he was 26. He was the lead singer of a duo that was performing, and I was mesmerized by his blue eyes and curly hair. Ten on-again-off-again months later, I was pregnant. We were young and we didn’t have much money, but we decided to have the baby.

A few months into my pregnancy, we moved in together, in a shabby apartment in downtown Montreal. I knew our romantic relationship wasn’t a forever thing—and I think he knew it, too—but the next year was going to be hard. The best part of our relationship was the lead up to the birth, and there were moments of elation when I even thought I was in love. We were living in a cozy little fantasy. But—spoiler—a baby, even one that hasn’t been born yet, doesn’t fix your relationship problems.

Our son, Sam, was born in February 2020. He spent his first week in the NICU, and that’s when the uneven division of labour in my relationship started to become apparent. Dylan would go home to sleep because he was tired. I couldn’t imagine leaving Sam. Then, when we got home from the hospital, it continued. He never wanted to wake up with our baby. I was holding Sam in his room one night, so enthralled by this tiny, little person, and felt overwhelmed by the feeling that it was us against the world. Dylan just wasn’t there.

My mom was, though. Halfway through my pregnancy, she moved from Toronto to Montreal to be closer to me. She’d even sleep over some nights to help me with Sam when I felt I couldn’t do it alone.

Dylan and I also fought. A lot. And—I can say this now with the benefit of hindsight—if you’re raising children with someone, and your biggest stressor isn’t the kid but your partner, that’s something to think about.

The universe gave us an off-ramp in the form of a medical emergency when Sam was three months old. The tenant in the apartment below us smoked. Sam stopped breathing one night—he’s asthmatic—and at the hospital the doctor told us that he couldn’t be around cigarette smoke. We’d already tried to get building management to help us get our neighbour to stop smoking inside, without luck. We’d have to move.

During Sam’s hospitalization, there was a day when Dylan didn’t come visit. He said he was tired. But my mom came. That’s when I realized that she was my co-parent, not Dylan

So I signed a new lease, sight unseen, on an apartment in Montreal’s Plateau neighbourhood. When I told Dylan I was leaving with Sam, he didn’t fight me on it. I think we both felt like it was a natural exit.

At 24 years old, I moved with my newborn to a neighbourhood where I didn’t know anyone, where I’d never even been before, in the middle of a pandemic. It was the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Call it what you want—maternal instinct, being young and dumb—but I just knew I could do it. The apartment was tiny, but it was ours. I felt so free.

That feeling was short-lived. We had a very basic parenting plan in place that allowed Dylan to see Sam as much as he wanted, but because he’d moved in with his parents who lived just outside the city, it always had to be at my place. He’d visit at least once a week, and sometimes stay for a few days. That was a lot. We’d just broken up, and there he was on my couch while we tried to learn how to co-parent. There was no opportunity to grieve our relationship or for me to find my footing in this new phase.

The next two years were up and down. Dylan would visit Sam a lot, but I had him every single night, so I didn’t really get a break. I’m the kind of person who needs alone time, and with a kid—and especially without a partner—you just don’t get that. I started to not recognize myself; I was just this mom vessel with no thoughts or interests or feelings of my own. It was all about Sam. I almost lost myself completely.

I tried to lean on my community for support. I was deliberate about making friends—not something that comes naturally to me. But when you have kids and you’re at the same playground every day, finding common ground with strangers is straightforward. I talked to everyone, and waited for the energy to click.

I made my first neighbourhood friend when her son was having a meltdown. I just handed her kid a cookie, and now she and I are friends. She’s a single mom, too. Creating that relationship raised my confidence. Slowly, I found other people I connected with, who have similar parenting styles and values. I’ve never really had a group of friends before, and—you know what? It’s amazing.

In the summer of 2022, Dylan got an apartment in our neighbourhood, and Sam started staying at his place overnight. At first, I couldn’t enjoy my time off. I felt so guilty; all I could think about was Sam every second I wasn’t with him. But that self-sacrificing attitude was burning me out. I had to change my mindset. Now I’m super present when we’re together, and when we’re not, I don’t think about it. I know he’s being taken care of.

Last October, Dylan wanted to revisit our parenting plan. The one we’d set up when Sam was a baby didn’t work for life with a toddler. We were starting to talk about school, extracurricular activities, the possibility of new partners. We’d also both changed jobs, which would affect child support. There was a lot to discuss, but it felt like we were just rehashing the same issues on repeat, so we both found lawyers who could help us get a new plan in place.

I think that was the worst phase of our co-parenting relationship. Working with lawyers feels antagonistic by nature—everything’s a power struggle. Things you’d never thought about before are suddenly wildly important to you. Plus, you’re paying for every single email. But it’s important to have someone advocating for you. Looking back, I wish we’d taken a less adversarial path, like mediation, but I just didn’t know how else to approach it at the time.

We finalized our new agreement in March. That was a breath of fresh air. Now, we have shared custody, with an 80/20 split, where Sam spends every Wednesday night and every other weekend with Dylan. We have a regular schedule, and I feel like I’m getting some of the joy back that I felt when we first separated.

I’m talking to people, I’m seeing friends, and I have a new job. I started working at a café, and I love it because it has nothing to do with my kid. I’m just another 20-something serving coffee. I’m being creative again, and I sew, often for hours at a time.

Coupled parents, women in particular, don’t get it. “How do you have the time?” they ask. They should have the time too! But an extra person—a partner—living in your house means more laundry, more bills, more groceries, more stuff, more mess. So unless your partnership is truly 50/50—and how many are?—of course there’s more work, usually for mothers.

But I don’t have to think about anyone’s schedule except mine and Sam’s. I don’t have to clean up anyone else’s mess. And when Sam is gone, it’s just me. I usually don’t even talk to anyone for the first 12 hours.

I didn’t understand how deeply I’d internalized the idea of the nuclear family until I got out of it. Now it feels like I’ve entered a beautiful clearing in a forest, filled with light and warmth. I wish this parenting plan could be replicated within the framework of marriage. If parenting was designated as a job, it wouldn’t look the way it does for most people, right? It would come with days off—otherwise, no one would want the gig. We’re not built to work that way.

Leaving a partner, especially one you have a child with, is so hard, and we had it relatively easy. I’ll always hold a very special place in my heart for the version of me who was so brave that day. That set the foundation for everything my son and I have today.

*Names have been changed to protect the author and her family’s privacy.