MY HUSBAND WORKS NONSTOP—AND I THINK HE LIKES IT THAT WAY
When we were in college, my husband started tutoring to make extra cash. It was never a problem—just a couple of hours here and there.
Even after he got his 9-to-5 job, he kept it up, but it was balanced. Manageable.
Until it wasn’t.
Over the past year, I watched his schedule fill up like a cup overflowing. More students, more late nights, more weekends gone. It wasn’t about the money—we weren’t struggling.
It was him. He just couldn’t say no.
We had one red line: Sundays were for family. No classes, no work—just us.
Then, last month, he crossed it. “Just for now,” he said. “Exams are coming up.”
And just like that, Sundays weren’t ours anymore.
At first, I swallowed my frustration. But last Sunday, when he grabbed his laptop right after breakfast and said, “I’ll just be an hour,” something in me snapped.
I finally told him what had been sitting on my chest for months. “You’re neglecting us.”
He looked at me, offended. “I have to work this hard. I’m doing this for our family.”
And that’s when I said it. The thing I hadn’t even admitted to myself until that moment.
I looked him straight in the eye, my voice trembling with anger and hurt. “No, you’re not. You’re doing it for yourself.”
His face fell. “What are you talking about?”
I took a deep breath, the words pouring out before I could stop them. “You don’t have to work this much. We’re not struggling. We have enough. You’re working because you want to. Because you like being busy. Because you’d rather be working than being here—with me. With us.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because he knew I was right.
I continued, the pain and frustration I’d been bottling up for months finally spilling over. “You’ve replaced us with your work. You’re not escaping poverty, you’re escaping us.”
He looked away, his shoulders sagging. “That’s… that’s not true.” But his voice was weak, like he didn’t even believe himself.
I felt tears burning in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “You used to be here. Really here. But now? Even when you’re physically home, your mind is somewhere else. You never stop working. And the worst part? I think you like it that way. Because it’s easier than dealing with what’s happening here.”
The Truth Underneath
He looked up, his face pale. “What do you mean?”
I swallowed hard, my voice breaking. “You’re avoiding me. Avoiding us. And I’m terrified to admit it, but I think… I think you’re not happy here anymore.”
His eyes widened, his lips parting as if to protest. But again, no words came.
I forced myself to continue. “Do you know how lonely it feels to sit at the dinner table with your husband and watch him stare at his phone? To go to bed alone every night because he’s working late? To feel like a stranger in your own marriage?”
He looked like I had slapped him. “I… I didn’t realize…”
“That’s the problem,” I said, my voice cracking. “You didn’t realize because you weren’t paying attention. You were too busy hiding behind your work.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his face etched with guilt. “I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing. Providing for us. Making sure we were secure.”
I shook my head, tears finally slipping free. “We don’t need more money. We need you. I need my husband back. Our kids need their father. We need our Sundays back.”
He sank into the chair, his head in his hands. For the first time in months, he was really there. No laptop, no students, no distractions. Just him.
“I don’t… I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered. “I don’t know who I am without it.”
Facing the Real Problem
The words hung heavy in the air. I had been so wrapped up in my own pain that I never considered what he was running from.
I sat down beside him, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Then let’s figure it out. Together. But you have to be here to do that. You have to be present.”
He looked up at me, his eyes red. “I’ve been a terrible husband. A terrible father.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve been absent. There’s a difference. But it’s not too late to change that.”
He exhaled shakily. “I’ll… I’ll scale back. Cancel some sessions. Make Sundays ours again.”
I shook my head. “It’s not just about Sundays. It’s about us. I need to know that you’re not running from me. From this life we built together.”
He closed his eyes, a tear slipping free. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I just… I felt like I was losing myself. And work… it made me feel important. Needed. Like I mattered.”
I felt my heart crack. “You matter here, too. More than you know.”
A New Beginning
We sat there for hours, talking, crying, and piecing together the fragments of our life that had been scattered by his obsession with work.
The next day, he canceled his sessions. That weekend, we had our first real Sunday as a family in months. We went to the park, ate ice cream, and laughed together. It was awkward at first, like we were relearning how to be around each other. But by the end of the day, we felt like a family again.
It’s not perfect. He still struggles with the urge to work, to lose himself in his job. But now he recognizes it for what it is—an escape. And he’s choosing to face the real world instead of hiding behind his laptop.
And me? I’m learning to forgive. To rebuild the trust that was fractured by his absence.
We’re healing. Slowly. Together.
And this time, he’s here to stay.
