I was 39 weeks pregnant—swollen, exhausted, running purely on determination—when my husband Alan did something so tone-deaf at his own birthday dinner that I stood up, took our daughter’s hand, and walked out. I didn’t shout. I didn’t argue. I just left, because sometimes silence says everything.
My name is Catherine, but most people call me Cathy. I’m 38, massively pregnant, and counting the days until our second child arrives. Any moment now, according to my doctor. Every step feels like a knife in my spine. Every breath pushes against a rib. Sleep is a distant memory.
Meanwhile, Alan has shown up to exactly one doctor’s appointment this entire pregnancy.
“One,” I remind myself.
“It’s work, Cath,” he always says. “Bills don’t pay themselves.”
Funny, work never stops him from going out with friends. Weekends—time he could spend helping me or bonding with Zoey, our four-year-old—he’s always “busy.”
The nursery? Half-assembled. Boxes everywhere. Curtains still in the wrapper. Crib untouched.
“Alan, when are you going to finish this?”
“I’ll get to it. Stop nagging.”
This is the soundtrack of my life lately.
So when his sister Kelly offered to host a small family dinner for his 39th birthday, I thought maybe this could be a peaceful night. Maybe I could power through a few hours of discomfort just to make him happy.
I put on my nicest maternity dress—the one that used to make him smile when I was pregnant with Zoey.
He didn’t even glance at me.
We arrived at Kelly’s place to warm lights, the smell of roast chicken, and soft music. The first nice atmosphere I’d stepped into in weeks.
Grace, my mother-in-law, hugged me gently. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?”
“Fine,” I lied through gritted teeth. My pelvis felt like it was splitting in half.
Dinner started pleasantly. Zoey told stories from preschool. Jake, Kelly’s boyfriend, cracked jokes about the fire station. I shifted in my chair every few minutes to avoid feeling like my organs were being crushed.
Halfway through the meal, Alan stood, grinning like an excited teenager.
“You know what, Cath?” he said loudly, gesturing with his fork. “After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and get her to bed? I’ll stay here and keep the party going. Beer with Jake, maybe a cigar on the balcony—one last fun night before the baby comes!”
The room went dead silent.
My fork slipped from my hand.
“You… want me to leave? Alone? With Zoey?”
He nodded, unbothered. “You’re tired anyway. Someone needs to put her to bed.”
I stared at the man I married. The man who helped create the child inside me.
“Alan,” I said slowly, “I am 39 weeks pregnant. The baby could come tonight.”
“Oh, come on, Cath. Don’t be dramatic.”
That’s when Grace—bless her—set her fork down and rose.
“Alan,” she said, voice sharp, “repeat exactly what you just said to your wife.”
He stammered. “I—I asked her to take Zoey home so I could stay and celebrate.”
Grace folded her arms. “Your wife, nine months pregnant, exhausted, overdue for rest, should drive home alone so you can smoke cigars?”
Kelly stared at her plate. Jake rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. Even Zoey sensed the tension.
“She has gone to every ultrasound alone. Every appointment alone. The nursery isn’t finished. You haven’t helped her. You haven’t read one book on delivery or postpartum care. And now you want to send her away so you can party?”
“Mom—”
“No. You sit there and listen.”
Alan shrank back.
Grace walked behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Catherine is carrying your child. She deserves care, not dismissal.”
My throat closed. Hearing someone finally say what I’d been silently carrying for months made my eyes sting.
I pushed back my chair.
“I’m going home,” I said quietly.
Grace squeezed my shoulders. “I’m going with you.”
I took Zoey’s hand.
“Is Daddy coming too?” she asked.
I looked at him—frozen, ashamed, still seated.
“No, honey,” I said softly. “Daddy wants to stay here.”
We left. No goodbyes.
In the car, Zoey asked why everyone was upset. “Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes,” I said. “Sometimes big ones.”
Back home, Grace helped put Zoey to bed, then joined me on the couch with two cups of tea.
“How long has he been like this?” she asked.
I stared at the ceiling, feeling the baby shift painfully under my ribs.
“Since I got pregnant,” I admitted. “Maybe before. I don’t know anymore.”
Another kick, hard enough to take my breath.
“It’ll be soon,” Grace murmured.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m scared.”
“Of labor?”
“No. Of everything after.”
She took my hand. “Whatever happens, you won’t face it alone. This baby will never lack love, even if Alan needs time to remember how to show it.”
Her words cracked something open in me—fear, grief, hope all tangled together.
Later, when the house was quiet and Grace was asleep upstairs, I sat in dim light, hands on my belly.
The baby kicked again, reminding me they’re almost here. This messy, painful, uncertain moment won’t last forever.
But my choices after this? Those will shape our lives.
“I promise you,” I whispered to my unborn child, “you will never feel unwanted. Never feel like an inconvenience. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Daddy, but you and Zoey deserve better than what happened tonight. And I’m strong enough to make sure you get it.”
Soon, the baby will arrive.
And so will the decisions I’ve been avoiding.
But as I sat there in the quiet, with a tiny life pressing against my ribs and Grace’s soft breathing upstairs, I finally felt something I hadn’t felt in months:
Ready.
Ready to choose myself. Ready to choose my kids. Ready to choose a better future—even if it looks nothing like the one I imagined when I married Alan.
The rest will unfold soon enough.