I Stormed Out of My Husband’s Birthday Party After What He Pulled

I was 39 weeks pregnant, forcing a smile through constant pain and bone-deep exhaustion at my husband’s birthday dinner last week. Then he leaned toward me and said something so unbelievable that I took my daughter’s hand and walked out without looking back. That night is burned into my memory, and I’m certain it’s one no one in his family will ever forget.

My name is Catherine, though everyone calls me Cathy. I’m 38 years old and carrying our second child, right at the edge of delivery. Any day now, this baby could decide it’s time.

My stomach feels stretched to its limit, like skin pulled too tight. Every step sends sharp jolts through my hips and legs. Sleeping through the night hasn’t happened in weeks. Turning over in bed feels like running a marathon.

We already have Zoey. She’s four years old, all pigtails, curiosity, and endless chatter. This pregnancy has been nothing like my first. It’s been heavier, harder, and far more draining. My doctor explained it gently.

“Cathy, because you’re over 35, this pregnancy is considered high-risk,” Dr. Smith told me at my last appointment. “You really need to slow down. Rest is essential now.”

Rest. If only Alan understood that.

My husband has shown up to exactly one ultrasound this entire pregnancy. One. Meanwhile, I’ve attended every appointment, every scan, every blood test, every anxious moment alone.

“I have to work, Cath,” he always says. “Someone has to keep the lights on.”

But even on weekends, he chose work. Or plans. Or anything that wasn’t home. He left me chasing a four-year-old while my back throbbed and my feet ballooned.

For months, I asked him to help get the nursery ready. Nothing big. Just move some boxes. Hang the curtains. Put together the crib.

“I’ll do it soon,” he promised. Every single time.

The room is still unfinished. Boxes stacked everywhere. Bare windows. The crib leaning against the wall like an afterthought.

“When are you actually going to finish this?” I asked two weeks ago, pressing a hand into my aching lower back.

“Soon, Cathy. You’re always nagging,” he snapped.

Nagging. Right.

So last Tuesday was Alan’s 39th birthday. His sister Kelly called that morning.

“I want to have a small birthday dinner for him,” she said. “Just family. Nothing fancy. You, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and Jake.”

It sounded peaceful. I hoped maybe we could just enjoy one calm evening together.

“That sounds lovely. Thank you,” I told her.

I spent the afternoon getting ready, or at least trying to. I put on my nicest maternity dress. The one Alan used to love when I was pregnant with Zoey.

He didn’t even notice.

We arrived at Kelly’s place around six. The apartment smelled like roasted chicken and herbs. Soft jazz played in the background. Candles glowed on the table. For a moment, it felt warm and safe.

“Happy birthday!” Grace, Alan’s mother, wrapped him in a hug. She’s always been good to me. More of a mother than my own ever was.

Dinner started off well. Kelly had cooked all of Alan’s favorites. Zoey happily babbled about preschool. Grace asked how I was feeling. Jake told stories from the fire station that made everyone laugh.

I tried to ignore the pressure building low in my body. Every shift in my chair sent pain through my spine. But I told myself it was Alan’s night. I wanted to get through it.

Halfway through the meal, Alan leaned toward me, smiling like he’d just had a brilliant idea.

“Hey, Cath,” he said casually. “After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and get her to bed? I’ll stay here and keep celebrating with everyone.”

I stared at him. “What?”

He looked even more excited. “Come on. This is my last real chance to cut loose before the baby comes. I want to have a few beers with Jake. Maybe a cigar. Stay up late like the old days.”

My fork slipped from my hand.

“You want me to leave? Alone? With Zoey?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged. “You’re exhausted anyway. You complain about it all the time. Someone has to put her to bed.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Alan, I’m 39 weeks pregnant. I could go into labor tonight.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he said.

That’s when Grace set her fork down and stood up slowly. The room went silent.

“Alan,” she said calmly. “Repeat what you just told your wife.”

“I said—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Say it exactly. Word for word.”

Alan glanced around the table, searching for support. There was none.

“I asked her to take Zoey home so I could keep celebrating my birthday.”

Grace nodded once. “So you asked your nine-months-pregnant wife, who could go into labor at any moment, to drive home alone with your four-year-old so you can drink and smoke.”

Alan’s face flushed.

“Sit down,” she said.

He did.

Grace moved behind my chair and rested her hands on my shoulders.

“This woman is carrying your child. She’s exhausted, in pain, and scared. And you want to send her away so you can party?”

“It’s just one night.”

“One night?” she shot back. “What happens if she goes into labor while you’re drunk? She calls an Uber to the hospital?”

She didn’t stop there.

“She’s gone to every appointment alone. Every scan. Every test. She’s begged you to help prepare for this baby, and the nursery is still unfinished. You’ve learned nothing about childbirth. You’re acting like this pregnancy is happening to you, not to both of you.”

Tears filled my eyes. Someone finally said it out loud.

“I’m going home,” I whispered.

Grace squeezed my shoulders. “I’m coming with you. You shouldn’t be alone.”

I stood carefully, every movement painful.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I said to Zoey, holding out my hand.

“Is Daddy coming?” she asked.

I looked at Alan. He couldn’t meet my eyes.

“No, honey. Daddy wants to stay and party.”

Zoey’s face fell, but she took my hand.

The drive home was quiet. Grace hummed softly while Zoey asked why everyone was upset.

“Sometimes adults disagree,” I said gently.

“Will you and Daddy be okay?” Zoey asked.

I didn’t know how to answer.

At home, Grace helped Zoey get ready for bed while I collapsed on the couch, my back on fire.

Later, Grace brought me tea.

“How long has he been like this?” she asked.

“Since I got pregnant. Maybe before,” I admitted.

The baby kicked hard, stealing my breath.

“It won’t be long now,” Grace said. “Whatever happens, you won’t be alone.”

Alan never came home that night.

I rested my hands on my belly and whispered to the baby inside me, promising something I knew I could keep.

No matter what happens next, you will always know you are loved.