My name is Catherine, but most people call me Cathy. I’m 38 years old, 39 weeks pregnant, and about to welcome my second child into this world. Any day now, I could go into labor. But instead of resting, instead of feeling cared for, I found myself at a dinner table last week hearing words from my husband that broke something inside me.
I’ll never forget that night. None of us will.
The Weight of Nine Months
At this stage of pregnancy, my body feels like it’s carrying the weight of the world. My belly is stretched so tight it feels like it could pop any moment. Every step sends lightning bolts of pain down my legs. Sleep? I barely remember what that is.
And then there’s Zoey—our sweet four-year-old daughter. She’s full of energy, endless questions, and those little pigtails that bounce whenever she runs. I adore her, but chasing her while this pregnant? It’s brutal.
The doctor has been clear:
“Cathy, you need to take it easy,” Dr. Smith warned me last week. “Rest is crucial now.”
Rest. What a joke.
Because Alan—my husband—doesn’t make it easy. He’s been to exactly one ultrasound appointment. Just one. Out of dozens. His excuse is always the same:
“I have to work, Cath. Someone has to pay the bills.”
But weekends? He works those too, or rather, he chooses to. Leaving me exhausted, waddling around the house, trying to prepare for a new baby while looking after Zoey.
I begged him for months to help finish the nursery. Just simple things—moving boxes, hanging curtains, setting up the crib.
“I’ll get to it,” he’d say. Every time.
But the room is still a mess. Boxes everywhere. No curtains. The crib still leaning against the wall like a forgotten chore.
When I asked again two weeks ago, his answer cut sharp:
“Soon, Cath. God, you’re always nagging.”
Nagging. That’s what he calls it.
A Birthday Dinner
Last Tuesday was Alan’s 39th birthday. His sister Kelly called me that morning.
“I want to throw him a little party at my place,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Just family dinner. You, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and Jake.”
It sounded simple. Peaceful, even. A chance to celebrate without stress.
“That sounds wonderful, Kelly. Thank you,” I replied.
I tried to look nice. I slipped into my favorite maternity dress—the same one Alan once told me I looked beautiful in when I was pregnant with Zoey. This time, he didn’t even notice.
We got to Kelly’s apartment around six. The air smelled of roast chicken, candles flickered, and soft jazz played in the background. It felt warm and welcoming.
Grace—my mother-in-law—hugged Alan first.
“Happy birthday, son!” she said warmly. Then she smiled at me. Grace has always been kind, more of a mother than my own ever was.
Dinner was lovely at first. Kelly had cooked all of Alan’s favorites—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. The chocolate cake sat ready on the counter. Zoey chattered happily about preschool. Jake, Kelly’s boyfriend, made everyone laugh with stories from the fire station. Grace asked me about the baby.
But even as I smiled, I shifted in pain. My back screamed with every move. I kept telling myself: Just get through tonight. Make it nice for him.
The Words That Shattered Everything
Then, halfway through the meal, Alan leaned toward me with a grin that stretched too wide.
“You know what, Cath? After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and get her to bed? I’ll stay here with everyone else. Keep the party going.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
He chuckled. “Come on, babe! This is my last chance to really celebrate before the baby comes. I want to drink some beer with Jake, maybe smoke a cigar on the balcony. Stay up late like the old days.”
The fork slipped from my hand and clattered onto my plate.
“You want me to leave? And take Zoey home alone?”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugged, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re tired anyway, right? You’re always grumbling about how exhausted you are. And someone needs to put Zoey to bed.”
I stared at him. This man I married. This man I’ve loved for eight years.
“Alan. I’m 39 weeks pregnant. The baby could come tonight.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Cath. Don’t be dramatic!”
The Moment His Mother Spoke
The room went dead silent—until Grace set down her fork. Slowly, she stood, fixing her son with eyes sharp enough to slice through stone.
“Alan,” she said, calm but icy. “Would you mind repeating what you just said to your wife?”
Alan shifted uncomfortably. “I said—”
“No.” Grace raised one finger. “Word for word. What did you just tell Catherine to do?”
Alan’s face turned red. He looked at Kelly, then Jake. No one came to his rescue. Finally, he muttered, “I asked her to take Zoey home so I could celebrate my birthday with everyone else.”
Grace repeated it back, her voice ringing in the quiet room:
“Your wife—who is 39 weeks pregnant, who could go into labor at any moment—you want her to drive home alone with your four-year-old, so you can drink beer and smoke cigars.”
When she put it like that, it sounded even worse.
“Mom, it’s not—” Alan started.
“Sit down, Alan,” Grace snapped.
And he did.
She walked around the table until she stood behind me, resting her hands gently on my shoulders.
“Catherine is carrying your child. YOUR child. She is exhausted, in pain, and still trying to support you. And instead of taking care of her, you want to push her out the door so you can have fun?”
Alan muttered, “It’s just one night.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “And what if she goes into labor while you’re drunk here? What then? She calls an Uber to the hospital while you sit laughing on the balcony?”
No one spoke. Kelly stared at her plate. Jake looked uncomfortable. Even Zoey seemed to sense the tension, her little eyes darting between us.
Grace wasn’t finished. “This woman has gone through every appointment alone. She begged you to help with the nursery, and you brushed her off. She has done everything while you’ve acted like this baby isn’t your responsibility. Do you even hear yourself?”
Alan went pale.
I whispered, “I’m going home.”
Grace squeezed my shoulders. “You’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.”
Walking Out
Standing felt like fire ripping through my back, but I pulled myself up. I reached for Zoey’s small hand.
“Come on, baby girl. Let’s go home.”
Her little voice cracked my heart. “Is Daddy coming too?”
I glanced at Alan. He sat frozen, staring at his plate.
“No, honey. Daddy wants to stay here. And party.”
Her face fell, but she nodded and took my hand.
I didn’t say goodbye.
Home, Where Truth Settles
The drive was quiet, Zoey asking why everyone seemed upset.
“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, sweetheart,” I whispered.
“Will you and Daddy be okay?”
I caught Grace’s sad eyes in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know, baby. I honestly don’t know.”
Back at the house, Grace helped get Zoey ready for bed. I collapsed on the couch, my body aching. Upstairs, Zoey asked, “Grandma, will you read to me?”
“Of course, little one,” Grace said softly.
When she came back down, she handed me tea. “How long has he been like this?”
“Since I got pregnant,” I admitted. “Maybe even before.”
The baby kicked hard, making me wince. Grace watched me closely.
“Are you scared?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. “Not about the baby. I’m scared about what happens after. About whether I can do this alone.”
“You won’t be alone, Cathy. You and this baby will always have me.”
I pressed both hands to my belly as the baby kicked again. I whispered, “I don’t know what your daddy’s thinking, little one. But I promise—you will never doubt that you’re loved.”
Alan still hasn’t come home. Maybe he’s still at Kelly’s, celebrating his “freedom.” But me? I’m sitting here, stronger than I’ve ever felt. I know soon, very soon, I’ll hold this baby in my arms.
And when that happens, I’ll have choices to make—hard choices about my marriage, about the example I want to set for my children, about whether some things are simply unforgivable.
For now, I’m just a mother waiting. But I know one thing for sure: no matter what Alan decides, my children will grow up surrounded by love.
That night changed everything. And there’s no going back.