My name is Catherine, but most people call me Cathy. I’m 38 years old, 39 weeks pregnant, and carrying baby number two. At this stage, I feel like a balloon stretched to its limit—ready to pop at any second.
Every step sends a sharp jolt of pain through my legs. Sleep? Forget it. I can’t even remember what a full night’s rest feels like anymore.
We already have our sweet Zoey. She’s four years old, all pigtails, giggles, and endless questions about the world. She keeps me going, even when I feel like collapsing. But this pregnancy… it’s been harder. The doctor says it’s because I’m over 35. “High risk,” they call it.
Dr. Smith looked me straight in the eye last week and said, “Cathy, you need to take it easy. Rest is crucial now.”
I wanted to laugh. Rest? With a four-year-old and a husband like Alan? Yeah, right.
Alan has only shown up for one ultrasound. One. Out of dozens. I’ve been to every single appointment by myself—every scan, every test, every moment of worry—alone.
Whenever I ask him about it, he just says, “I have to work, Cath. Someone has to pay the bills.”
But even on weekends, when he could help, he’s never really there. I end up chasing Zoey around while my back screams and my swollen feet ache.
I’ve begged him for months to help with the nursery. All I wanted was a little teamwork—move some boxes, hang some curtains, set up the crib. Each time, he gave me the same line: “I’ll get to it.” But the nursery still looks abandoned. Boxes everywhere. No curtains. The crib leaning uselessly against the wall.
When I brought it up two weeks ago, exhausted and rubbing my aching back, he snapped: “Soon, Cath. God, you’re always nagging.”
Nagging. That’s what he calls it.
So, last Tuesday, it 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 brightly. “Nothing fancy. Just a family dinner. You, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and Jake.”
It actually sounded nice. I thought maybe we could have one evening where things felt normal.
“That sounds wonderful, Kelly. Thank you,” I told her.
I spent the afternoon getting ready—or at least trying to. I squeezed into my nicest maternity dress, the same one that used to make Alan smile back when I was pregnant with Zoey. I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d notice again.
He didn’t.
We arrived at Kelly’s apartment around six. The smell of roast chicken filled the air, soft jazz played in the background, and candles flickered across the table. It was warm and welcoming.
“Happy birthday, son!” Grace—Alan’s mother—wrapped him in a hug. She’s always been so kind to me, more of a mother than my own, honestly.
Alan grinned. “Thanks, Mom. This looks great, Kel.”
Dinner started off well. Kelly cooked all of Alan’s favorites: roast chicken with herbs, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. A chocolate cake sat on the counter waiting for dessert.
Zoey chattered excitedly about preschool. Grace asked me how I was feeling. Jake cracked jokes about his job at the fire station. I tried to ignore the stabbing pain in my back and the pressure building in my belly. I wanted this night to be special for Alan.
Then it happened.
Halfway through the meal, Alan turned to me with a big, bright smile. The kind he rarely uses anymore.
“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 and keep the party going.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
His smile grew even wider. “Come on, babe! This is my last chance to 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.”
My fork slipped from my fingers and clattered onto my plate.
“You want me to leave? And take Zoey home alone?”
“Well, yeah.” Alan shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re tired anyway, right? You’re always saying that. And someone needs to put Zoey to bed.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Alan. I’m 39 weeks pregnant. The baby could come tonight.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Cath. Don’t be dramatic!”
That’s when Grace set down her fork. Slowly. She rose from her chair and gave her son a look that could burn straight through stone.
“Alan,” she said calmly, but her voice cut like a knife. “Would you mind repeating what you just said to your wife?”
Alan shifted uncomfortably. “I said—”
“No.” Grace’s voice was sharper now. “Word for word. What did you just tell Catherine to do?”
His face flushed red as he glanced around the table for support. But no one spoke.
“I asked her to take Zoey home so I could celebrate my birthday with you guys,” he muttered.
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Your wife. Who is 39 weeks pregnant. You want her to drive home alone with your four-year-old daughter so you can drink beer and smoke cigars.”
Alan’s voice cracked. “Mom, it’s not—”
“Sit down, Alan.”
And he did.
Grace walked behind my chair and placed her hands gently on my shoulders.
“Catherine is carrying your child. YOUR child. She is in pain, exhausted, and close to labor. And instead of helping her, you want to send her away?”
Alan muttered, “It’s just one night.”
Grace’s eyes flashed. “One night? What if she goes into labor while you’re drunk here? What then? She calls an Uber to the hospital while you’re too wasted to drive?”
Her words sliced through the air like thunder.
“This woman has been going to every appointment alone,” she continued, her voice rising. “She begged you for help with the nursery and you ignored her. She has carried this pregnancy without your support. And now, at the end, you still don’t see it.”
Tears filled my eyes. For the first time, someone had spoken the truth out loud.
Alan stammered, “Mom, you don’t—”
“Oh, I understand,” Grace snapped. “I understand that my son has forgotten what it means to be a husband.”
Silence fell. Alan sat pale and still, his gaze locked on his untouched plate.
I pushed my chair back. “I’m going home,” I whispered.
Grace squeezed my shoulders. “I’m coming with you, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
I stood, every movement sharp with pain, and held out my hand. “Come on, Zoey. Let’s go home.”
Her little voice was full of confusion. “Is Daddy coming too?”
I looked at Alan. He didn’t move. Didn’t even look up.
“No, honey. Daddy wants to stay here. And party.”
Zoey’s face fell, but she nodded and slipped her hand into mine.
We left without saying another word.
The drive was quiet. Grace hummed softly to soothe Zoey, who kept asking, “Why is everyone sad?”
All I could manage was, “Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, baby.”
“Will you and Daddy be okay?” she asked.
I caught Grace’s sad eyes in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. I honestly don’t know.”
At home, Grace helped tuck Zoey into bed. “Grandma, will you read to me?” Zoey asked hopefully.
“Of course, little one,” Grace said, and followed her upstairs.
I sank onto the couch, my body aching, my mind racing. When did Alan and I become strangers? When did my partner stop being my partner?
Grace returned later with two cups of tea. “How long has he been like this?” she asked gently.
I rubbed my belly, where the baby’s tiny feet pushed against me. “Since I got pregnant. Maybe even before. I don’t know anymore.”
The baby kicked hard, making me gasp.
Grace leaned forward. “Are you scared?”
I thought about it. A week ago, I would’ve said yes. But tonight, something shifted.
“Not about the baby. I’m scared about everything else. About what comes next. About doing this alone.”
Grace squeezed my hand. “You won’t be alone. You and this baby are my priority. Whatever my son does, you’ll have me.”
Her words wrapped around me like a blanket.
Later, as I sat in the quiet house, the baby moved again—stronger this time. Almost like they were reminding me they were ready. Ready to meet this complicated world.
I placed my hands on my belly and whispered, “I don’t know what your daddy’s thinking right now, little one. But I promise you this: You will never doubt that you’re loved. Not for one second.”
Soon, I’ll have choices to make. About my marriage. About the example I want for my children. About whether Alan’s behavior is forgivable.
But right now, I’m just a mother waiting for her baby to arrive—surrounded by people who truly love us.
And I’m ready to fight for the family my children deserve, even if it looks different than the one I once imagined.