When Love Runs Out: A Story of Leaving and Longing

“I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.”

The words hiss from my lips, too quiet for anyone but the yellowed kitchen wall to hear. Grease sizzles as I flip another pork chop, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind spirals. I imagine smashing the pan against the countertop, sending dinner splattering, just to make the noise in my head stop. But I don’t. I never do. I just keep cooking.

From the living room, I hear Mom’s voice—sharp, accusing. “Kate, you’re burning them! Are you even paying attention?”

I clench my jaw. “They’re fine, Mom.”

She appears in the doorway, arms crossed. “Fine? Smells like you’re trying to set this place on fire. Lord knows you can barely keep yourself together with that baby.”

At the mention of my son, my heart thuds. Michael. Nine months old and everything to me, and yet… sometimes I feel nothing but bone-deep exhaustion when I look at him. The guilt is like a stone in my chest.

He starts to cry, that ragged, desperate wail that tells me he’s not just hungry or tired—he needs me. But all I want is to run.

Mom sighs. “Go get him. I’ll try to rescue what’s left of dinner.”

As I cross the hall, my knees buckle. I stand in the doorway of Michael’s tiny room, watching his little fists flail, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. “Shh, baby. It’s okay. Mommy’s here.”

But as I lift him, my arms tremble. The scent of baby powder and sour milk fills my nose. I sway, holding him tight, wishing I could disappear.

Later, after dinner—after Mom’s endless critique of how I’m raising Michael, how I never measure up, how I should’ve finished college instead of getting pregnant—I put him to bed. The lullaby I sing cracks on the last note; my voice is thin, like I’m a ghost haunting my own life.

I lie awake listening to the house settle, to Michael’s soft breathing, to Mom’s TV blaring through the wall. My phone buzzes. Scott, Michael’s father, is texting again from his new apartment across town.

Scott: “Let me take him for the weekend. You need a break.”

Me: “I’m fine.”

Scott: “You don’t have to do this alone, Kate.”

I want to scream. He left before Michael was born, said he wasn’t ready to be a dad, but now he wants to play hero? I toss the phone aside and stare at the ceiling. The world feels too heavy. I feel invisible—just someone’s daughter, someone’s ex, someone’s mother. Never just Kate.

Morning comes gray and sluggish. I pour coffee, hands shaking. Mom’s at the table, scrolling her phone. “Your cousin just got promoted. Maybe you should think about getting a real job.”

I snap. “I have a job, Mom. I’m raising your grandson.”

She laughs, bitter. “You call that a job? You don’t even do it right.”

The words slice through me. I leave the coffee untouched and go to Michael, who’s babbling in his crib. He smiles, reaches for me. I pick him up, press his warm cheek to mine, and whisper, “I love you. I love you so much.”

But it doesn’t drown out the doubt, the shame, the sense that I’m failing him. I spend the day in a fog—feeding, changing, rocking, numbing myself with Netflix reruns while Michael sleeps. The apartment feels like a cage, every room echoing with Mom’s disappointment and Michael’s needs.

That night, after another argument—Mom accusing me of being lazy, of trapping her in this life—I find myself standing in the hallway, jacket on, keys in hand. Michael is asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling. I stare at him, my heart in my throat. What kind of mother wants to leave her own child? Who am I becoming?

I tiptoe to the front door. Mom’s asleep, TV flickering blue in the living room. I close the door behind me and stand in the cold, heart pounding. I walk. One block, two. My hands shake so badly I can’t light a cigarette. The night is empty, silent, and I feel both free and terrified.

Images flash—Michael waking to no one, Mom’s rage, Scott blaming me for running. I’m sobbing now, hunched on the curb. I want someone to save me, but there’s nobody. Not tonight.

After an hour, I go back. Mom is awake, furious. “Where the hell were you? What if something happened?”

I can’t speak. She shoves past me to check on Michael, then slams the bedroom door. Alone, I collapse on the kitchen floor, choking on my own tears.

The next day, I call my doctor. “I think I need help,” I say, voice barely a whisper.

Weeks pass. I start therapy. I let Scott take Michael some weekends, even when it hurts. I apply to community college, just one class to start. Mom still criticizes, but I listen less. Sometimes, I still want to run. But then Michael giggles, or grabs my finger, and for a moment, I remember why I stay.

Sometimes I wonder: if love alone isn’t enough, what is? What does it mean to be a good mother when you’re running on empty, when your own heart feels broken? Does anyone else ever feel this lost?