I’m 39 weeks pregnant, and last week I found myself sitting at my husband’s birthday dinner, trying to smile through the exhaustion and pain. I told myself, Just make it through the night, Cathy. Just make it through one dinner.
But then Alan turned to me with a smile and said something that cut so deep it made me grab my daughter’s little hand and walk out. I’ll never forget that night. And I know nobody in his family will either.
My name is Catherine, but everyone calls me Cathy. I’m 38 years old, almost 39, and I’m carrying baby number two. At this point, the baby could come any day now.
My body feels like a balloon stretched too tight, ready to burst. Every step sends bolts of pain shooting down my legs, and sleep? That’s something I haven’t had in weeks.
We already have Zoey, our four-year-old bundle of energy with pigtails and a million questions. I love her more than anything, but chasing her around while nine months pregnant feels like running a marathon with bricks tied to my ankles.
This pregnancy has been much harder than my first. The doctor says it’s because I’m “over 35” and officially labeled high-risk.
“Cathy, you need to take it easy,” Dr. Smith warned me last week. “Rest is crucial now.”
Rest. Right. Tell that to my husband, Alan.
Alan has shown up to exactly one ultrasound appointment. One. Out of dozens. Every other appointment, every blood test, every moment of worry, I’ve gone alone.
“I have to work, Cath,” he always says. “Someone has to pay the bills.”
But it’s not just work. He even works on weekends—or finds excuses not to be around. And I’m left wrangling a preschooler while my body feels like it’s breaking apart.
I’ve begged him for months to help me with the nursery. Just small things—move boxes, hang curtains, set up the crib.
“I’ll get to it,” he promises. Every single time.
But the nursery still sits half-finished. Boxes scattered. No curtains. And the crib is still leaning against the wall like a piece of junk.
Two weeks ago, I rubbed my aching lower back and asked, “Alan, when are you going to finish this room?”
He sighed and snapped, “Soon, Cath. God, you’re always nagging.”
Nagging. That word stung.
So when his 39th birthday rolled around last Tuesday, I told myself I’d just keep the peace. His sister Kelly called me that morning.
“I want to throw Alan a little party,” she said. “Nothing big. Just family dinner—me, you, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and Jake.”
It sounded nice. Maybe we could have one calm, happy evening.
“That sounds wonderful, Kelly. Thank you,” I said.
I spent the afternoon getting ready, which wasn’t easy. At nine months pregnant, putting on shoes feels like climbing a mountain. But I slipped into my nicest maternity dress—the one that used to make Alan smile back when I was pregnant with Zoey.
This time, he didn’t even notice.
We arrived at Kelly’s apartment around six. The air smelled like roast chicken, candles flickered on the table, and soft jazz played in the background. It felt cozy, welcoming.
“Happy birthday, son!” Grace, my mother-in-law, said as she wrapped Alan in a hug. Grace has always been good to me. Honestly, she’s been more of a mother than my own.
“Thanks, Mom. This looks great, Kel,” Alan said.
Dinner started out pleasant. Kelly had cooked all of Alan’s favorites—roast chicken with herbs, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. The cake on the counter was chocolate with vanilla frosting, his absolute favorite.
Zoey kept everyone entertained, chattering about preschool. Grace asked how I was feeling, Jake cracked jokes from his firehouse job, and I tried to ignore the sharp pressure in my pelvis and the constant throb in my back.
I kept telling myself: This is Alan’s night. Just get through it.
But halfway through dinner, Alan turned to me with this big, excited smile, like he’d just had the best idea ever.
“You know what, Cath?” he said. “After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and get her to bed? I’ll stay here with everyone else and keep the party going.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
His grin widened. “Come on, babe! This is my last chance to celebrate before the baby comes. I want to drink some beers with Jake, maybe smoke a cigar on the balcony, stay up late like the old days.”
My fork slipped from my hand and clattered against the plate.
“You want me to leave? And take Zoey home alone?”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “You’re tired anyway, right? You’re always grumbling about that. And someone has to put Zoey to bed.”
I stared at him. This man I’d loved for eight years, the father of my children, was seriously telling me to leave so he could drink and party.
“Alan,” I said, my voice shaking, “I’m 39 weeks pregnant. The baby could come tonight.”
“Oh, come on, Cath. Don’t be so dramatic!”
The room went silent. That’s when Grace set down her fork and stood. Her eyes locked on her son, sharp as ice.
“Alan,” she said coldly. “Repeat what you just told your wife.”
He looked startled. “I said—”
“No.” She raised one finger. “Word for word. What did you just tell Catherine to do?”
Alan shifted uncomfortably, his face red. He glanced around, searching for support. None came.
“I asked her to take Zoey home so I could celebrate my birthday,” he muttered.
Grace’s voice cut like a knife. “Your nine-months-pregnant wife. Who could go into labor at any second. You want her to drive home alone with your four-year-old daughter so you can drink beer and smoke cigars.”
Alan’s jaw clenched. “Mom, it’s not—”
“Sit. Down.”
He sat.
Grace walked over and placed her hands gently on my shoulders. Her voice softened as she looked at me, then hardened again as she turned back to Alan.
“Catherine is carrying your child. She is exhausted, in pain, and doing everything alone. And instead of helping her, you want to send her away so you can party?”
“It’s just one night,” Alan mumbled.
“One night?” Grace’s voice rose. “What if she goes into labor while you’re here, drunk? What then? She calls an Uber to the hospital?”
Alan’s face went pale.
Grace wasn’t finished. “This woman has begged you for months to help with the nursery. You’ve shown up to one appointment. You’ve treated this pregnancy like it’s happening to you, instead of with you. You’ve forgotten what it means to be a husband.”
The silence that followed was crushing.
I whispered, “I’m going home.”
Grace squeezed my shoulders. “I’m coming with you, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
I stood slowly, every muscle aching, and reached for Zoey’s hand.
“Come on, baby girl. Let’s go home.”
Zoey looked up at me with big eyes. “Is Daddy coming too?”
I glanced at Alan, still frozen in his chair, staring at his plate.
“No, honey,” I said softly. “Daddy wants to stay here. And party.”
Her little face crumpled, but she nodded and held my hand.
We left without another word.
The drive home was quiet. Zoey kept asking, “Why is everyone sad?” I told her gently, “Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, baby.”
“Will you and Daddy be okay?” she whispered.
I caught Grace’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She gave me a small, sad smile.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I said honestly. “I don’t know.”
At home, Grace helped me get Zoey to bed. Zoey asked, “Grandma, will you read to me?” and Grace kissed her forehead. “Of course, little one.”
While they were upstairs, I collapsed on the couch, my body screaming. I thought about my marriage, about the man I thought I married versus the man who told me to leave his birthday party.
When did we become strangers?
Grace came down with tea and sat beside me. “How long has he been like this?” she asked gently.
“Since I got pregnant,” I admitted. “Maybe before. I don’t know anymore.”
The baby kicked hard, making me gasp. Grace watched me closely.
“They’re getting stronger,” I said. “The doctor said it could be any day.”
She nodded. “Are you scared?”
A week ago, I would have said yes. But now? “Not about the baby. I’m scared about everything else. About what happens next. About doing this alone.”
Grace reached for my hand. “You won’t be alone. You and this baby are my priority. Whatever my son does, you’ll have me.”
Another kick hit my ribs, strong and insistent. I placed my hands on my belly and whispered to my unborn child, “I don’t know what your daddy’s thinking right now, little one. But I promise this—you will never doubt that you are loved.”
And in that quiet living room, with Grace by my side, I realized something. Very soon, I would have to make decisions—hard ones—about my marriage, my future, and what kind of example I want to set for my children.
Some choices might be unforgivable.
But one thing was clear: my babies would always know love.
The rest? I’ll figure it out when the time comes.