I’m 39 weeks pregnant, exhausted, and barely sleeping. My husband Alan has missed almost every appointment, ignored the unfinished nursery, and brushed off every request for help. “You’re always nagging,” he likes to say. Still, I tried to make his 39th birthday special. His sister hosted a dinner, and I showed up in my best maternity dress, pretending the pressure in my hips didn’t feel like breaking glass.
Dinner started fine—family chatting, Zoey giggling, the smell of roast chicken everywhere. Then, halfway through the meal, Alan turned to me with a grin.
“After dinner, you should take Zoey home and put her to bed. I’ll stay here and party with everyone.”
My fork slipped. “You want me to leave? Alone? I’m 39 weeks pregnant.”
“Oh, Cath, don’t be dramatic.”
Before I could respond, his mother Grace stood up, furious. “Repeat what you just said to your wife.” When he did, the room fell silent. Grace’s voice was ice. “Your pregnant wife could go into labor at ANY moment, and you want her to drive home alone so you can drink beer?”
Alan shrank into his seat.
I left with Zoey—and Grace came with me.
Back home, as I sat aching on the couch, I realized something: I wasn’t afraid of childbirth. I was afraid of raising two kids with a husband who’d already checked out.
Soon this baby will arrive. And after that, I’ll decide what kind of family my children deserve.
One thing is certain: they will never doubt they’re loved.
