At thirty-nine weeks pregnant, every movement felt like navigating through molasses while carrying a bowling ball strapped to my midsection. My name is Catherine Morrison—Cathy to everyone who knows me—and at thirty-eight years old, I was carrying my second child while trying to hold together a marriage that had been slowly unraveling since the pregnancy test showed two pink lines eight months earlier.
The baby could arrive any day now, according to Dr. Sarah Martinez, my obstetrician who had been monitoring what she classified as a high-risk pregnancy due to my age. Every appointment brought new reminders about the importance of rest, stress reduction, and having a strong support system during these final weeks. The irony wasn’t lost on me that the person who should have been my primary support had instead become a source of constant frustration and disappointment.
My body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. My belly stretched so tight that I could see the outline of tiny hands and feet pressing against my skin, creating temporary bumps that shifted and moved throughout the day. Sleep had become a distant memory, replaced by a series of two-hour naps interrupted by the baby’s increasingly active movements and my own growing discomfort. Every step sent shooting pains down my legs, and my lower back ached with the constant strain of carrying the additional weight.
We already had four-year-old Zoey, a bundle of energy with blonde pigtails and an endless supply of questions about everything from why the sky was blue to when her baby sibling would finally arrive. This pregnancy had been different from my first in every conceivable way—more difficult physically, more complicated emotionally, and infinitely more isolating than I had expected.
Dr. Martinez had been clear about the increased risks associated with pregnancy after thirty-five. “Your body is working harder this time, Cathy,” she had explained during one of my weekly appointments. “You need to prioritize rest and avoid unnecessary stress. This is crucial for both your health and the baby’s development.”
Rest and stress reduction seemed like reasonable medical advice until you tried to implement them while married to Alan Morrison, a man who had apparently decided that his wife’s pregnancy was something happening to me rather than something we were experiencing together.
Alan had managed to attend exactly one ultrasound appointment out of the dozens I had scheduled throughout the pregnancy. One. When I had asked him to come to the appointment where we would learn the baby’s gender, he had cited a work meeting that couldn’t be rescheduled. When I had requested his presence at the appointment where the doctor had expressed concerns about the baby’s positioning, he had claimed that his project deadline made it impossible to leave the office.
“I have to work, Cath,” had become his standard response to any request for involvement in the pregnancy. “Someone has to pay the bills, and my job is more demanding than ever right now.”
But his work commitments, I had discovered, included voluntary weekend projects, optional training sessions, and social events with colleagues that somehow took precedence over preparing for our child’s arrival. While I attended every checkup, every test, and every anxiety-inducing appointment alone, Alan was building his career and maintaining the kind of social life that didn’t include a pregnant wife who needed help getting out of bed in the morning.
For months, I had been asking him to help prepare the nursery—simple tasks that required minimal time and effort but would make an enormous difference in getting ready for the baby’s arrival. Moving boxes out of the spare room, hanging the curtains I had carefully selected, assembling the crib that had been sitting in its packaging since my baby shower three months earlier.
“I’ll get to it this weekend,” he had promised repeatedly, but weekends came and went without any progress. The nursery remained half-finished, a monument to good intentions and broken promises that served as a daily reminder of how alone I was in preparing for this child.
Two weeks before his birthday, I had stood in the doorway of the unfinished nursery, one hand supporting my aching lower back while surveying the chaos of unopened boxes and incomplete projects.
“When are you planning to finish this?” I had asked him, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
“Soon, Cath. God, you’re always nagging about something.”
Nagging. The word had hit me like a physical blow, reducing months of reasonable requests and growing anxiety to nothing more than unwelcome pressure from a demanding wife.
The pattern had been established early in the pregnancy and had only intensified as my due date approached. I was responsible for all doctor’s appointments, all preparations for the baby’s arrival, all decisions about everything from car seats to pediatrician selection, while Alan continued living as if he were still a bachelor whose primary obligations were to his job and his own entertainment.
When his sister Kelly called on Tuesday morning to suggest throwing him a birthday party, I had seen it as an opportunity for one peaceful family evening together. Kelly was kind and thoughtful, someone who had always treated me like a real sister rather than just her brother’s wife, and her invitation felt like a small gift during a period when family gatherings had become rare.
“I want to throw Alan a little party at my place,” she had said, her voice warm and excited. “Nothing elaborate—just a family dinner with you, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and my boyfriend Jake. I’ll cook all his favorite foods, and we can have cake and just enjoy being together.”
“That sounds wonderful, Kelly,” I had replied, genuinely looking forward to an evening that didn’t involve the constant tension that had come to characterize interactions at our house. “Thank you for thinking of him. And for including us.”
I had spent Tuesday afternoon getting ready for the party, which at thirty-nine weeks pregnant meant finding clothes that still fit and attempting to look presentable despite feeling like I had been inflated with a bicycle pump. I chose my nicest maternity dress—a navy blue wrap dress that had once made Alan smile when I wore it during my first pregnancy—and spent extra time on my hair and makeup, hoping to recapture some version of the woman he had fallen in love with eight years earlier.
He didn’t notice my efforts, barely glancing up from his phone when I announced that I was ready to leave for Kelly’s apartment.
Kelly lived in a charming two-bedroom apartment in Lincoln Park, close enough to drive to but far enough away that it felt like a special occasion when we visited. The smell of roast chicken greeted us as we walked through her front door, mixed with the aroma of herbs and the vanilla candles she had lit throughout the living and dining areas. Soft jazz played from speakers hidden somewhere in the room, and the dining table was set with her good dishes and fresh flowers.
“Happy birthday, son!” Grace Morrison, Alan’s mother, pulled him into one of her generous hugs before turning to embrace me with the same warmth. Grace had always been more of a mother to me than my own mother, who lived across the country and maintained the kind of distant relationship that involved holiday cards and brief phone calls rather than genuine emotional connection.
“Thanks, Mom. This looks great, Kel,” Alan said, surveying the spread Kelly had prepared while accepting birthday wishes from his father Robert and Jake, Kelly’s boyfriend who worked as a firefighter and always had entertaining stories about his shifts.
Dinner began exactly as I had hoped it would. Kelly had prepared all of Alan’s childhood favorites—herb-roasted chicken that fell off the bone, creamy mashed potatoes with butter and sour cream, green bean casserole with crispy fried onions on top, and dinner rolls that were still warm from the oven. The chocolate birthday cake with vanilla frosting sat on the kitchen counter, waiting for the moment when we would sing and make wishes and pretend that life was as simple as family dinners and birthday celebrations.
Zoey chattered enthusiastically about her day at preschool, describing art projects and playground adventures with the kind of detailed storytelling that only four-year-olds can sustain. Grace asked thoughtful questions about my pregnancy, expressing the kind of genuine interest and concern that I had stopped expecting from her son. Jake entertained everyone with stories from his job, describing rescue calls and firehouse pranks with enough humor to keep the conversation light and enjoyable.
I tried to ignore the constant pressure in my pelvis, the shooting pains that radiated down my legs whenever I shifted position, and the persistent ache in my lower back that had become my constant companion. This was Alan’s birthday celebration, and I was determined to make it special despite my physical discomfort.
The conversation flowed easily around the table, filled with the kind of comfortable family banter that made me remember why I had fallen in love with the Morrison family before I had fully understood how different Alan was from his parents and sister. For the first time in months, I felt relaxed and included, part of a family unit rather than an inconvenient obstacle to other people’s plans.
Then, halfway through the main course, Alan turned to me with the kind of bright smile that suggested he had just solved a complex problem that had been bothering him.
“You know what, Cath?” he said, his voice animated with sudden inspiration. “After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and get her settled for the night? I’ll stay here with everyone else and keep the party going.”
I blinked, certain that I had misheard him. “What do you mean?”
His smile grew wider and more enthusiastic, as if he were presenting me with a wonderful gift rather than a shocking suggestion. “Come on, babe! This is my last chance to really celebrate before the baby comes. I want to have some beers with Jake, maybe smoke a cigar out on Kelly’s balcony, stay up late like we used to do before kids and responsibilities took over our lives.”
The fork slipped from my fingers and clattered against my plate, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden silence that had fallen over the table.
“You want me to leave your birthday party? And take Zoey home by myself?”
“Well, yeah,” Alan said, shrugging as if this were perfectly reasonable rather than completely outrageous. “You’re tired anyway, right? You’re always complaining about how exhausted you are. And someone needs to put Zoey to bed on schedule, and you’re better at bedtime routines than I am.”
I stared at my husband—this man I had loved for eight years, whom I had married and built a life with, who was supposed to be my partner in raising our children and navigating life’s challenges together. The man who was now suggesting that his thirty-nine-weeks-pregnant wife should drive home alone with their four-year-old daughter so he could party with his family while she dealt with bedtime routines and the possibility of going into labor without him.
“Alan,” I said, my voice carefully controlled despite the emotions churning in my chest. “I’m thirty-nine weeks pregnant. The baby could literally come tonight. Or tomorrow. Or any time between now and next week.”
“Oh, come on, Cath,” he replied, his tone dismissive and slightly annoyed. “Don’t be so dramatic! First babies are always late, and you’ve been saying the baby could come ‘any day now’ for the past month. You’re fine.”
That was the moment when Grace Morrison set down her fork with deliberate precision and stood up from her chair. She fixed her son with a look that could have frozen the Chicago River in July.
“Alan,” she said, her voice carrying the kind of deadly calm that every parent recognizes as the prelude to serious consequences. “Would you mind repeating what you just said to your wife?”
“I said that she should take Zoey home so I can—”
“No,” Grace interrupted, holding up one finger to stop him mid-sentence. “Word for word. I want you to repeat exactly what you just told Catherine to do.”
Alan’s face flushed red as he realized that his mother was not going to let this slide with the kind of masculine camaraderie he had apparently expected. He looked around the table for support from his father or Jake, but found only uncomfortable silence and averted gazes.
“I asked her to take Zoey home so I could continue celebrating my birthday with you guys,” he said, his voice less confident than it had been moments earlier.
“Your thirty-nine-weeks-pregnant wife,” Grace repeated slowly, as if she were explaining a complex concept to a child. “Who could go into labor at any moment. You want her to drive home alone with your four-year-old daughter so you can drink beer and smoke cigars like you’re still a twenty-year-old bachelor.”
When she phrased it that way, the suggestion sounded even more appalling than it had when he first made it.
“Mom, it’s not that bad. It’s just one night, and—”
“Sit down, Alan.”
He sat immediately, the automatic response of someone who had been on the receiving end of that tone before.
Grace walked around the table until she stood behind my chair, her hands resting gently on my shoulders in a gesture of support that brought tears to my eyes.
“Catherine is carrying your child,” she continued, her voice rising slightly with controlled anger. “YOUR child, Alan. She is nine months pregnant, exhausted, in constant pain, and approaching one of the most physically demanding experiences a woman can go through. And instead of taking care of her, protecting her, making sure she feels safe and supported, you want to send her away so you can have a party?”
“It’s just one night, Mom. I just want to—”
“One night?” Grace’s voice cracked like a whip. “What happens if she goes into labor while you’re sitting here drunk? What then? She calls an Uber to take her to the hospital while you’re too intoxicated to drive? She labors alone while you’re here smoking cigars and reliving your youth?”
The scenarios she was describing weren’t hypothetical—they were entirely possible outcomes of Alan’s suggestion, and hearing them spelled out made the selfishness of his request impossible to deny.
“And another thing,” Grace continued, her maternal fury now fully unleashed. “This woman has been to every single doctor’s appointment alone. Every ultrasound, every test, every moment of anxiety and uncertainty about this pregnancy, she has faced by herself while you’ve been ‘too busy’ with work to show up for your own child.”
My eyes filled with tears as someone finally acknowledged what I had been experiencing for months. Grace had seen what I had been too embarrassed to articulate—that I was essentially going through this pregnancy as a single mother while married to a man who acted like my pregnancy was an inconvenience rather than a shared responsibility.
“She’s been asking you for months to help prepare for this baby,” Grace said, her voice growing stronger with each word. “The nursery isn’t finished. You haven’t attended childbirth classes or learned anything about labor and delivery. You act like this pregnancy is something that’s happening TO you instead of something you’re both doing together as partners.”
Kelly stared at her plate, clearly uncomfortable with the family drama unfolding at her carefully planned birthday dinner. Jake cleared his throat and took a long drink of water, probably wishing he could disappear from this intensely personal confrontation. Zoey looked confused by the adult tension crackling around the table, her young mind unable to process why the grown-ups had stopped being happy.
“Mom, you don’t understand what it’s like trying to balance everything—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Grace said, cutting him off with the authority of someone who had raised children and knew the difference between legitimate challenges and selfish excuses. “I understand that my son has forgotten what it means to be a husband and father. I understand that he’s treating his pregnant wife like a babysitter rather than a partner. And I understand that he’s about to miss the birth of his child because he’s more interested in playing than in taking responsibility.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Alan’s face had gone from red to white, and he was staring at his plate as if it might provide answers to questions he had never thought to ask himself.
I pushed back from the table as carefully as I could, every movement requiring deliberate effort as I maneuvered my unwieldy body away from the source of humiliation and disappointment.
“I’m going home,” I whispered, my voice barely audible above the sound of my own heartbeat.
Grace squeezed my shoulders gently before helping me stand. “I’m coming with you, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be alone tonight, especially not after this.”
I held out my hand to Zoey, who had been watching the adult drama with wide, uncertain eyes. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s go home.”
“Is Daddy coming too?” she asked, her voice small and confused.
I looked at Alan, who sat frozen in his chair, staring at his plate as if the pattern of flowers around the rim held the secrets of the universe.
“No, honey,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tears threatening to spill over. “Daddy wants to stay here and celebrate his birthday with Uncle Jake.”
Zoey’s face crumpled slightly as she processed this information, but she took my hand trustingly and slipped down from her chair. At four years old, she didn’t understand the complexity of adult relationships, but she could sense that something important had just broken.
I didn’t say goodbye to Kelly or Robert or Jake. I couldn’t find words that would adequately address what had just happened, and I was afraid that if I started talking, I would either break down completely or say things that could never be unsaid.
The drive home was quiet except for Grace humming softly in the backseat and Zoey asking innocent questions about why everyone had seemed so sad at Uncle Kelly’s house.
“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, baby,” I managed to say, my voice thick with emotions I was trying to keep contained until we were safely at home.
“Will you and Daddy be okay?” Zoey asked, her perceptive four-year-old mind cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
I caught Grace’s eyes in the rearview mirror, seeing my own uncertainty reflected in her worried expression.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I admitted, because lying to her felt wrong even if the truth was complicated. “I honestly don’t know.”
Back at our house, Grace helped me get Zoey ready for bed while I collapsed on the living room couch, my body finally giving in to the exhaustion and emotional strain of the evening. My back felt like someone had been using it for sledgehammer practice, and the baby seemed to be responding to my stress with increasingly active movements that made it difficult to find any comfortable position.
“Grandma, will you read me a story?” Zoey asked, clutching her favorite book about a little bear who was afraid of the dark.
“Of course, little one,” Grace replied, settling into the routine that I usually handled but felt too drained to manage tonight.
While they read upstairs, I sat alone in the living room thinking about my marriage and trying to understand how we had arrived at this point. When had the man I had fallen in love with become someone who could ask his pregnant wife to leave his birthday party? When had we stopped being partners and become strangers sharing a house and financial obligations but little else?
Grace returned downstairs carrying two cups of chamomile tea, settling into the armchair across from me with the careful movements of someone who understood that this conversation would be important.
“How long has he been like this?” she asked without preamble.
“Since I got pregnant,” I replied, accepting the tea gratefully. “Maybe before that, but the pregnancy made it impossible to ignore. It’s like he decided that having a baby was something I was doing to him rather than something we were doing together.”
The baby delivered a particularly strong kick against my ribs, making me gasp and press my hand against the spot where tiny feet were protesting their increasingly cramped accommodations.
“That looked like a big one,” Grace observed, watching me closely with the experienced eye of someone who had been through pregnancy herself.
“They’re getting stronger and more frequent,” I said, rubbing the sore spot where the baby had kicked. “Dr. Martinez says it could happen any time now.”
Grace nodded thoughtfully, sipping her tea while processing this information. “Are you scared?”
I considered the question carefully. A week ago, I would have said yes without hesitation—terrified of labor, anxious about complications, worried about managing two children, afraid of all the unknowns that lay ahead. But tonight, something fundamental had shifted in my perspective.
“Not about the baby,” I said finally. “I’m scared about everything else. About what happens to my marriage after tonight. About whether I can handle being essentially a single mother while legally married. About what kind of example we’re setting for Zoey and the baby.”
“You won’t be alone, dear,” Grace said firmly, leaning forward to emphasize her words. “I meant what I said earlier tonight. You and this baby are my priority now, regardless of what my son decides to do. Whatever happens with your marriage, you’ll have my support.”
Another strong contraction-like sensation made me catch my breath, different from the baby’s movements but not quite the regular pattern that would indicate active labor.
“I keep thinking about what I’ll tell this baby about tonight,” I whispered, one hand resting on my belly. “About the night their father chose a party over being present for his family when we needed him most.”
Grace reached over and took my free hand, her grip warm and reassuring. “You’ll tell them they were wanted desperately by their mother and grandmother. You’ll tell them they were born into a family that values them and will always put their needs first. That’s what matters.”
The house felt different that night—quieter in some ways, but also lighter, as if a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying had been lifted. Alan still hadn’t come home, and I found myself wondering if he was still at Kelly’s apartment, drinking beer and pretending that his pregnant wife’s departure was just another example of female dramatics rather than a legitimate response to his thoughtless behavior.
The baby kicked again, stronger and more insistent this time, as if they were eager to meet this complicated world I was bringing them into. I placed both hands on my belly and spoke quietly to the child who would soon be in my arms.
“I don’t know what your daddy is thinking right now, little one,” I murmured. “But I promise you this: you will never doubt that you’re wanted and loved. You will never question whether you matter to me. And you will grow up understanding that real love means showing up for the people who need you, especially when it’s inconvenient or difficult.”
Very soon, I would have important decisions to make about the future of my marriage and the kind of life I wanted to build for my children. I would need to decide whether Alan’s behavior was something that could be addressed through counseling and communication, or whether it represented fundamental character flaws that made him unsuitable as a life partner.
But tonight, I was simply a mother preparing to welcome her second child into the world, surrounded by people who genuinely cared about our wellbeing and supported by a mother-in-law who had shown more commitment to my family in one evening than her son had demonstrated throughout my entire pregnancy.
As I sat in the quiet house, feeling my baby move and listening to Grace humming softly while she tidied up the kitchen, I realized that I was stronger than I had given myself credit for. I had spent months accommodating behavior that was unacceptable, making excuses for someone who should have been making sacrifices for me, and accepting treatment that fell far short of what I deserved as a partner and expectant mother.
The woman who had walked out of that birthday party was different from the one who had arrived hoping for one peaceful family evening. She was someone who understood her own worth, who recognized the difference between temporary difficulties and fundamental incompatibility, and who was prepared to fight for the kind of family her children deserved to have.
The baby shifted again, settling into what felt like a more comfortable position, and I smiled despite everything that had happened that evening. Soon, very soon, I would hold this little person in my arms and begin the next chapter of our lives. Whether that chapter included Alan would depend entirely on his willingness to become the husband and father his family needed him to be.
But regardless of what he decided, I knew that my children and I would be okay. We were surrounded by love, supported by people who valued us, and ready to build whatever kind of future would honor the promises I had made to the baby still growing inside me.
The rest, as I had told myself, we would figure out once the baby arrived. But for the first time in months, I felt confident that whatever came next, we would face it with dignity, strength, and the unshakeable knowledge that we deserved better than what we had been accepting.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
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