My Husband Gave His Couch in the Delivery Room to My MIL and Went on a Boys’ Trip Instead – He Got a Lesson He’ll Never Forget
I’m Cindy, 32, pregnant and trusting Luke’s vow to be in the delivery room—no excuses. Foster kid, no family but him. He attended every ultrasound, rubbed swollen feet, whispered to our unborn son.
Two days before due date, I found his note: boys’ trip, Mom will cover. Voicemail. Rage and fear collided.
Janet called, furious: “He lied to me too. I’m coming.” Contractions hit 2 a.m.; she arrived in pajamas, thermos in hand, fierce.
Hours of pain; she coached, joked, held cold cloths. “You’re strongest here.” Baby boy arrived screaming. We sobbed together. Luke missed it all.
Next day, sunburned Luke sauntered in with gas-station flowers. Janet unleashed: “FOURTEEN HOURS late, you idiot.” I stayed silent.
Home, Janet moved in for “support.” Handed Luke “Dad Duty Bootcamp”: midnights, diapers, 5 a.m. bottles. Enforced like a sergeant. By day four, zombie Luke begged mercy. “Cindy managed alone,” she snapped.
Week’s end, Janet to Luke: “Remember this exhaustion. That’s parenthood.” To me: “You’re stronger than he deserves.”
That night, broken Luke apologized. I demanded presence—every feed, every cry. He delivered. Swaddles, baths, straight home from work.
Janet taught him: show up when it’s hard. Now he’s the father he promised—because karma wore pajamas and changed diapers at 3 a.m.
