The rain came down in sheets that night, cold and relentless, the kind that seeps through your coat and settles into your bones. By the time I finally pulled into the driveway, I wasn’t alone—and the moment my husband looked up and saw who was standing beside me, the color drained from his face.When I left the office earlier that evening, my body felt borrowed, like it no longer belonged to me. My feet were swollen to the point that every step burned. My lower back pulsed with a steady ache, and the baby pushed upward so forcefully it felt as if my ribs might crack from the inside. Eight months pregnant doesn’t feel miraculous. It feels heavy. Slow. Like carrying a truth you’re not allowed to put down.
I made my way through the parking garage with one hand braced against my belly, breathing through the discomfort. I’d kept working full-time through the pregnancy partly because I had to—but mostly because staying busy was easier than sitting at home and watching my marriage quietly collapse.
Somewhere around my sixth month, Travis decided the pregnancy was my responsibility alone. He never said it outright. He just stopped showing up. No more doctor’s appointments. No more cooking. No more asking how I felt. Instead, he started going to the gym twice a day, morning and night.
“Someone in this family needs to stay in shape,” he said the first time, smiling like it was a joke.
The second time, I didn’t laugh.
