Pregnancy is supposed to be a beautiful time in a woman’s life—filled with love, excitement, and the support of her partner. But for me, it was the beginning of a nightmare I never saw coming.
Before I got pregnant, Arnie was the perfect husband. He showered me with love, carried me in his arms, and made me feel like the most cherished woman in the world. When we found out we were expecting, he grinned ear to ear, holding the positive test in his hands like it was the greatest treasure.
But the moment my body started changing, everything changed with it.
At first, it was just little remarks. “You could at least dress better instead of walking around in pajamas all day,” he muttered, ignoring the fact that I had spent the entire morning throwing up.
Then came the complaints. “This house is a mess,” he grumbled one evening, kicking off his shoes. “You just lie around all day.”
I swallowed my exhaustion and tried to explain. “Arnie, my back is killing me, and I feel nauseous all the time. I can barely stand without feeling dizzy.”
But he didn’t care. He started staying out late, glued to his phone, texting someone.
“Who are you always talking to?” I asked one night.
“It’s just work,” he snapped, barely looking up.
Then, one night, eight months into my pregnancy, he came home reeking of women’s perfume.
“Where have you been?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Arnie didn’t even look at me. He tossed his keys on the table and shrugged off his jacket.
“None of your business.”
My stomach twisted, but before I could say another word, he stormed into the kitchen.
“JESSICA!” His voice thundered through the apartment.
I flinched. My heart pounded. Slowly, I forced myself up from the couch, my belly heavy, my legs stiff.
“What is it?” I asked, out of breath.
Arnie glared at me from the kitchen. “Where’s dinner?”
I swallowed hard. “I feel sick again. I tried, but every time I smell food, I run straight to the bathroom.”
Arnie rolled his eyes. “Could you at least have washed the dishes?” He scoffed. “What do you even do all day?”
Tears burned my eyes. “Arnie, I’m carrying our daughter. My body is working hard—”
“Don’t start!” He cut me off. “My sister was pregnant. She did everything. She cooked. She cleaned. She still looked good. And she never ignored her husband in bed!”
I gasped. My chest ached as if he had punched me.
That night, I cried myself to sleep.
And then, things got worse.
The insults became daily. The cold glares. The complete lack of care for me or our unborn child.
One day, I told my best friend everything. She listened, her expression growing darker with each word.
“Jessica, you need to leave him,” she said.
I shook my head. “I can’t. I have no money, no job, nowhere to go.”
“You’re not alone,” she insisted. “You don’t deserve this.”
I wanted to believe her, but I was trapped. Until one night, when everything changed.
Arnie was in the shower. His phone, which he never left unattended, lit up with a notification. My hands trembled as I picked it up.
A dating app. Dozens of messages. Women he had been flirting with, meeting, and sleeping with while I sat at home, carrying his child.
My stomach dropped. I clutched my belly, shielding my baby from the pain, but at that moment, my mind cleared.
I had to leave him. But I needed a plan.
The next day, I put it into motion.
And just as I was about to give birth, Arnie walked through the door with another woman.
“Who is this?!” I shouted, my voice shaking with rage and disbelief.
Arnie smirked. “This is Stacy, my girlfriend.”
My stomach twisted. “WHAT?!”
He tossed a folder onto the table. “I’m leaving you. Here are the divorce papers.”
I stared at him, my body numb. “What about our child?” I whispered.
Arnie shrugged. “I don’t want you or your baby.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “How can you be so cruel?”
He scoffed. “Look at yourself! Stacy is young, beautiful, and—most importantly—she never says no to me.”
He kissed her in front of me.
“YOU’RE A MONSTER!” I screamed, grabbing the pen from the table and signing the papers.
Arnie smirked. “At least I don’t look like you.”
I glared at him. “I’ll get my things when you’re not home!”
“Do it fast. Soon, you won’t have access to this house—it’s my property!”
He thought he had won.
He had no idea what was coming.
I gave birth to my daughter, Riley, the same day I finalized my divorce.
For a while, we lived with my mother. I healed. I found myself again.
Then one afternoon, a knock at the door startled me.
Stacy stood there.
“It’s over. Your plan worked.”
Relief washed over me. I smirked. “Finally.”
“Arnie signed everything over without reading. The house. The accounts. Everything.”
I laughed. “He never questioned anything I put in front of him.”
With Arnie out of the picture, Riley and I moved back into what was rightfully ours.
Then, one evening, I heard shouting outside.
“Stacy! Come back to me! I’m begging you! I have nothing left!” Arnie’s voice was desperate.
I stepped onto the porch, arms crossed. “Poor thing,” I said, my voice dripping with amusement.
Arnie’s head snapped toward me. “What are YOU doing here?!”
I smirked. “Didn’t expect this, did you?” I took a step forward. “I tricked you, Arnie. Stacy was part of my plan. You fell right into my trap.”
His face turned red with fury. “You witch! You set me up!”
I shrugged. “No, Arnie. Your own lust set you up. I just gave you the perfect opportunity to destroy yourself.”
His anger faded into desperation. “Come back to me. I’ll be better.”
I didn’t even pause. “No.”
“You’ll never find anyone else besides me!” he snapped.
I smirked. “I don’t need anyone else. Meanwhile, you’re homeless. I think I’ll be just fine.”
“Jessica, please,” he begged, his voice cracking.
I turned without another word and walked back inside. The lock clicked behind me.
I picked Riley up in my arms, holding her close. I had her, and I needed nothing else.
