I’m nine months pregnant, counting down the final days until our second baby arrives. My body feels stretched to its limit, every step sends sharp aches through my hips and back, and sleep is a luxury I haven’t had in weeks. Still, I tried to muster up some energy to join my husband’s birthday dinner last week. What he said that night left me clutching my daughter’s hand and walking out the door in disbelief. It’s a moment none of us will ever forget.
My Life at 39 Weeks Pregnant
My name is Catherine, though most people call me Cathy. I’m 38, and right now, 39 weeks along with our second child. The doctor reminds me constantly that I’m “high-risk” because of my age, and that rest is non-negotiable.
But rest doesn’t exist in my house. Not with a lively four-year-old, Zoey, asking endless questions while I shuffle around with swollen ankles and a belly that feels ready to pop.
Alan, my husband, hasn’t exactly made things easier. He managed to attend one ultrasound. One—out of dozens. I’ve been at every checkup and scan alone, clutching the little printouts of our baby while he explained that he was too busy with work. And when he wasn’t working? He was off on weekends, leaving me to wrangle Zoey by myself while I begged him to finish the nursery.
“Soon, Cath. Stop nagging,” he’d say, brushing me off. The crib still leans against the wall, unassembled.
The Birthday Invitation
Last week, Alan turned 39. His sister, Kelly, called me in the morning.
“Just a small dinner at my place,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Mom, Dad, Jake, you, Alan, and Zoey. We’ll celebrate quietly.”
It actually sounded nice. I thought maybe for once we could have a peaceful evening.
I squeezed myself into my favorite maternity dress—the same one that had made Alan smile when I was pregnant with Zoey. This time, he didn’t even notice.
A Warm Start
Kelly’s apartment smelled of roast chicken and herbs when we arrived. Candles glowed softly on the table, and gentle music played in the background. Grace, my mother-in-law, hugged me warmly. She’s always been more of a mother to me than my own.
Dinner was cozy at first. Zoey chattered about preschool, Jake shared funny stories from the fire station, and Kelly beamed as Alan dug into his favorite dishes. For a moment, I allowed myself to relax.
His “Big Idea”
Then, halfway through the meal, Alan turned to me with an eager grin.
“Cath, after dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and put her to bed? I’ll stay here with everyone. This is my last chance to really cut loose before the baby arrives. You know, drink, smoke a cigar, stay up late like old times.”
The fork slipped from my fingers. I stared at him, stunned.
“You want me to leave? Alone? At 39 weeks pregnant?”
Alan shrugged casually. “You’re always tired anyway. Might as well head home early. Someone’s got to get Zoey to bed.”
The words stung more than I can explain. I looked at the man I’d shared eight years with, the father of my children, and couldn’t recognize him.
A Mother’s Intervention
Before I could respond, Grace quietly placed her fork down. She stood, her eyes fixed on Alan like daggers.
“Alan,” she said, voice cold and steady, “repeat exactly what you just told your wife.”
Alan flushed crimson, fumbling for words. “I… I just suggested she take Zoey home so I could—”
“So you could drink and party while your nine-months-pregnant wife drives home with your daughter? When she could go into labor at any moment?” Grace cut him off.
The room went silent. Alan looked to Kelly, to Jake, to his father—but no one defended him.
The Breaking Point
Grace stepped behind my chair, resting her hands gently on my shoulders. “Catherine is carrying your child. YOUR child. She is exhausted, in pain, and deserves your care. Not dismissal.”
Alan muttered, “It’s just one night—”
“And what happens if she goes into labor while you’re here drunk? She calls a taxi to the hospital while you stumble around smoking cigars?” Grace snapped.
Tears filled my eyes. At last, someone else saw what I’d been living through—months of neglect, of feeling like this pregnancy was mine to shoulder alone.
Grace’s voice didn’t waver. “My son has forgotten what it means to be a husband.”
Walking Away
I whispered, “I’m going home.”
Grace squeezed my shoulder. “I’m coming with you.”
I rose slowly, every movement painful. “Zoey, sweetheart, let’s go.”
“Is Daddy coming too?” she asked, wide-eyed.
I looked at Alan, who sat frozen, staring at his plate. “No, honey. Daddy wants to stay here.”
Her little hand slipped into mine as we walked out.
Quiet Realizations
The drive home was heavy with silence. Grace hummed softly to soothe Zoey, who asked why everyone seemed sad. “Sometimes grown-ups disagree,” I murmured, blinking back tears.
Back at the house, Grace tucked Zoey into bed, reading her favorite story as I collapsed on the couch. My back ached, my heart ached worse.
“When did he change?” I whispered when she returned with tea.
“You’re not alone, Cathy,” she said firmly. “You and this baby are my priority. Whatever my son decides, you’ll always have me.”
A Different Kind of Strength
The baby kicked hard, pressing against my ribs, reminding me of what truly matters.
“What do I even tell this child one day?” I asked softly. “That their father chose a party over being by my side?”
Grace took my hand. “You’ll tell them they were wanted. That they were loved beyond measure. That’s the only truth they need.”
Her words settled something inside me.
The Uncertain Road Ahead
Alan never came home that night. Maybe he’s still clinging to the illusion of freedom he thinks he’s losing.
But I know one thing: this baby will never doubt that they are loved. Not by me. Not for one second.
Soon, I’ll face difficult decisions about my marriage, about the example I want to set for Zoey and this new little life. Some actions can’t be brushed aside.
For now, I’m simply a mother waiting to give birth, surrounded by the love that matters most. And I’m ready to fight for the family my children deserve—even if it looks very different from what I once imagined.