I honestly don’t know what to do to “fix” my husband anymore, ladies. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous—and exhausting—it feels. He’s nearly 30 this year, an age when most men have settled down, learned responsibility, and know how to care for their families. Yet my husband still behaves like a child in a grown man’s body.

My name is Emily, and my husband’s name is Ryan. We met in college and dated for almost four years before getting married. Back when we were dating, Ryan was cheerful, playful, and a little clueless—but I thought that once he got married and had a child, he would naturally mature. I believed that with all my heart.

I was wrong.

We’ve been married for just over a year now, and this year we welcomed our first son, Noah. This should have been the happiest time of our lives. But ever since we had a baby, I’ve truly seen who my husband is—not a bad man, not unfaithful, not involved in gambling or drinking, but simply… immature.

People around us say I’m lucky. They say my husband is gentle, doesn’t yell, and isn’t controlling. But only those who live inside the marriage understand how exhausting it is to share your life with a man who refuses to grow up.

I still clearly remember the early days of my pregnancy. When I found out I was expecting, I was both excited and anxious. I read everything online and asked other mothers for advice. Many people said fish porridge was very nutritious for pregnant women and good for the baby’s development. I had terrible morning sickness and couldn’t keep much food down, so I hoped my husband’s cooking would help.

I asked Ryan to make it. He happily agreed and confidently said,
“Don’t worry, it’s easy. I’ve watched plenty of cooking videos online.”

I lay in bed waiting, nauseous and weak. When the smell of porridge came from the kitchen, something felt off—it smelled bland and faintly fishy in the wrong way. When Ryan brought the bowl in, I immediately knew something wasn’t right.

It was just plain white porridge, watery and thin, with a chunk of boiled fish placed on top—skin still on, bones clearly visible.

Before I could even ask, Ryan said cheerfully,
“I cooked the porridge first so the rice would be soft, and I boiled the fish separately so it would be clean. That’s better, right?”

I hadn’t even lifted the spoon before I had to clutch my stomach and run straight to the bathroom. I vomited violently, tears streaming down my face from both nausea and frustration. Ryan stood outside the door, sounding genuinely worried.
“What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with the porridge?”

At that moment, all I could do was cry and laugh bitterly at the same time. I told myself, It’s okay. Men aren’t good at cooking. Once he becomes a father, he’ll change.

But when it came time for me to give birth, I realized just how naive I had been.

The day I was admitted to the hospital, I was in terrible pain. Ryan, however, was strangely excited. He insisted on being in the delivery room with me. I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to handle it and told him to wait outside, but he waved it off.
“I’ve watched tons of childbirth videos online. It’s not that scary. I want to be with you.”

I was in too much pain to argue.

When the contractions intensified and the doctor said I was almost fully dilated, Ryan stood beside me, tense but visibly curious. He leaned forward to look.

Less than a few seconds later, I heard a loud thud.

Ryan collapsed onto the floor—unconscious.

The delivery room erupted into chaos. One doctor was still helping me give birth while shouting for a nurse:
“He fainted! Get him out of here!”

I was in agony, terrified, and crying—unsure whether my tears were from pain or worry for my husband. While I was still in labor, Ryan was carried out for emergency treatment after fainting from psychological shock.

By the time I delivered our son safely and he was taken out of the room, Ryan had just regained consciousness. When he saw me, his face was still pale, his voice trembling.
“I thought… I thought I could handle it… I didn’t know…”

Lying there completely exhausted, I could only sigh. Even then, I still tried to comfort myself: At least he didn’t mean any harm. He’s just too naïve.

After our son was born, Ryan did help take care of the baby—but he was painfully clumsy. He forgot to secure the diaper tabs, mismeasured the water when mixing formula, and trembled whenever he held the baby. Once, he tried to rock the baby to sleep and ended up falling asleep himself, leaving Noah crying until his face turned red.

I was exhausted, but I endured it. I told myself that at least he was trying.

Then recently, I started noticing something very strange.

One day, Ryan brought home a small apple tree, I don’t even know where he got it. He planted it in a large pot and placed it on the balcony. He treated it like a treasure.

Every night at exactly 9 p.m., after dinner, he would quietly go out to the balcony. He watered it, wiped its leaves, and stood staring at it for a long time. Some nights, he stayed out there for half an hour before coming back inside.

As a woman—and a new mother—my instincts kicked in immediately.

It’s just a tree. Why is he so obsessed with it?

When I asked, Ryan only smiled and said,
“I just like it.”

That vague answer made me even more uneasy.

Yesterday, Ryan left for work early. After putting the baby to sleep, I couldn’t shake the feeling in my chest. Finally, I went out to the balcony to inspect the apple tree myself.

Looking closely, I noticed the soil around the base was uneven, slightly raised. My heart started pounding. Acting on instinct, I grabbed a small shovel and dug.

Less than a hand’s depth into the soil, I hit something hard—a black plastic bag.

My hands trembled as I pulled it out and opened it.

Inside was a stack of cash.

I counted it again and again, afraid I was mistaken. It was $200 in U.S. dollars, all in large bills.

I collapsed onto the balcony floor, my mind spinning. Why was my husband burying money under an apple tree? Where did it come from? What was he hiding?

I was terrified and angry at the same time. In a moment of impulse, I took the bag inside and hid it.

That evening, the moment Ryan got home, he rushed straight to the balcony. Seconds later, he shouted:
“Emily! Where’s my money?!”

I walked out and looked him straight in the eye. Ryan was truly panicking—his face pale, hands shaking.

“I left it right here! Did you see it?”

That was when the truth finally came out.

Ryan confessed that the money was something he had been secretly saving for months. Every time he received a small bonus or had leftover cash, he buried it under the apple tree so he could eventually buy a new gaming console.

He said regretfully,
“You don’t understand. I’ve been waiting for that console for so long. I was so close—just a little more…”

At that moment, I felt like crying.

We have a wife. We have a child. And yet all he could think about was gaming. Not saving for our son. Not planning for our family’s future. Just his personal entertainment.

I was so angry I couldn’t even speak. All the frustration I had bottled up over more than a year of marriage exploded at once.

I asked him,
“If I hadn’t found it today, how long were you planning to hide this? Did you ever think this money could be used for our child?”

Ryan fell silent. For the first time, I saw him lower his head.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Watching my son breathe softly in his crib, my heart ached—for him, and for myself.

I don’t need a rich husband.
I just need a grown-up one.

Ladies, I truly don’t know what to do anymore. Should I be stricter with my husband? Or have I been too tolerant, allowing him to remain immature?

Has anyone been in a similar situation? Please give me some advice…