My name is Catherine, but most people call me Cathy. I’m 38 years old and very pregnant—39 weeks, to be exact. That baby could come any day now. And last week, at my husband’s birthday dinner, something happened that I’ll never forget.
Something that changed everything. I walked out of that dinner, holding my daughter’s hand, and I haven’t looked at my husband the same way since.
That night still echoes in my head. And I know the rest of the family won’t forget it either.
Let me start from the beginning.
Right now, I feel like a walking balloon. My belly is stretched so tight it might pop. Every step sends lightning bolts down my legs. My back feels like it’s breaking in half. And sleep? Ha. I haven’t had a full night’s rest in weeks.
We already have a daughter—Zoey. She’s four, full of energy and endless questions. I love her more than life itself. But this pregnancy? It’s been so much harder.
The doctor says it’s because I’m over 35. “High risk,” they call it.
“Cathy, you need to take it easy,” Dr. Smith warned me last week. “Rest is crucial now.”
Rest? Yeah, sure. Tell that to my husband, Alan.
He’s been to one ultrasound. Out of dozens. I’ve gone to every single checkup by myself. Every time I’ve worried something might be wrong, I’ve sat in that waiting room alone.
“I have to work, Cath,” he always says. “Someone has to pay the bills.”
Okay, I get it. But even on weekends, when he doesn’t have to work, he finds something else to do. Meanwhile, I’m chasing Zoey around the house with swollen ankles and a back that feels like it’s on fire.
For months, I’ve asked him to help with the nursery. Just small things—move boxes, hang curtains, put the crib together.
“I’ll get to it,” he kept saying.
Well, it’s still not done. Boxes are scattered all over the room. The crib is still leaning against the wall. Curtains? What curtains?
“When are you going to finish this?” I asked him two weeks ago while rubbing my sore back.
“Soon, Cath. God, you’re always nagging.”
Nagging. That’s what he called it.
Then came his birthday last Tuesday. He turned 39. His sister, Kelly, called me that morning.
“I want to throw him a little party at my place. Nothing big. Just dinner with the family—you, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and my boyfriend Jake.”
I thought, maybe it would be nice. One peaceful night before the baby comes. Just dinner, laughs, and no stress.
“That sounds wonderful, Kelly. Thank you,” I told her.
I spent the whole afternoon getting ready. Which, when you’re nine months pregnant, is like preparing for battle. I wore my best maternity dress—the one Alan used to love when I was pregnant with Zoey. He didn’t even notice.
We got to Kelly’s apartment around six. The place smelled like roast chicken and herbs. Soft jazz played, candles flickered on the table, and everything felt warm and cozy.
“Happy birthday, son!” Alan’s mom, Grace, gave him a big hug.
“Thanks, Mom. This looks great, Kel,” Alan said.
Dinner started off fine. Kelly had cooked all his favorite dishes—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. There was a big chocolate cake with vanilla frosting waiting on the counter.
Zoey talked about preschool. Grace asked me how I was feeling. Jake told us funny stories from the fire station. I smiled and tried to ignore the growing pressure in my belly. I shifted in my seat and winced every few minutes from the pain. But I kept quiet.
I wanted this to be his night.
Then, in the middle of dinner, Alan turned to me with this huge grin.
“You know what, Cath? After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and get her to bed? I’ll stay here with everyone and keep the party going.”
I blinked, thinking I’d misheard.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Come on, babe! This is my last chance to celebrate before the baby comes. I wanna drink a few beers with Jake, maybe smoke a cigar on the balcony. Stay up late, like the old days.”
My fork slipped from my hand and clattered against my plate.
“You want me to leave? And take Zoey home by myself?”
“Well, yeah. You’re tired anyway, right? You’re always saying how tired you are. And someone needs to put Zoey to bed.”
I just stared at him. This was the man I married? The one who’s supposed to be my partner?
“Alan. I’m 39 weeks pregnant. The baby could come tonight.”
“Oh, come on, Cath. Don’t be dramatic!”
That’s when Grace—sweet, gentle Grace—slowly put down her fork and stood up.
“Alan,” she said, her voice sharp and calm. “Would you mind repeating what you just said to your wife?”
Alan looked up, surprised.
“I said…”
“No. Word for word.”
Alan shifted uncomfortably. “I… I asked her to take Zoey home so I could celebrate my birthday.”
“Your 39-weeks-pregnant wife. Who could go into labor at any moment. You want her to drive home alone with your four-year-old so you can drink beer and smoke cigars?”
Suddenly, what he said sounded so much worse when Grace repeated it out loud.
“Mom, it’s not—”
“Sit down, Alan.”
He sat.
Grace walked around the table and stood behind me. She placed her hands gently on my shoulders.
“Catherine is carrying your child. She’s in pain, exhausted, and near the finish line. And you want to send her home alone so you can relax?”
“It’s just one night,” he muttered.
“And what if she goes into labor while you’re here? What then? She calls an Uber to the hospital while you’re too drunk to help?”
Then Grace turned to the rest of the table.
“This woman has gone to every doctor’s appointment alone. Every ultrasound. Every test. While you’ve worked weekends and played the part of the absent husband. She begged you for help with the nursery, and you ignored her.”
I couldn’t stop the tears. Someone finally saw me.
“You act like this pregnancy is happening to her. But you’re in this too, Alan.”
The room was silent. Alan looked ashamed. Jake cleared his throat. Kelly stared at her plate. Zoey looked confused.
“I’m going home,” I whispered.
Grace nodded and gently squeezed my shoulder.
“I’m coming with you, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
I stood slowly, every movement aching.
“Come on, baby girl,” I said to Zoey, holding out my hand. “Let’s go home.”
“Is Daddy coming too?” she asked.
I looked at Alan. He didn’t even move.
“No, honey. Daddy wants to stay here. And party.”
Zoey’s face fell, but she took my hand.
We left without saying goodbye. The car ride home was quiet. Grace hummed softly in the backseat. Zoey kept asking why everyone seemed sad.
“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, baby,” I said.
“Will you and Daddy be okay?”
I glanced at Grace in the mirror. She gave me a small, sad smile.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. I honestly don’t know.”
Back home, Grace helped get Zoey ready for bed while I sank onto the couch. My body felt broken. Zoey asked Grace to read her a bedtime story.
“Of course, little one,” Grace said warmly.
Once Zoey was asleep, Grace came back downstairs with two cups of tea.
“How long has he been like this?” she asked gently.
“Since I got pregnant. Maybe even before,” I said.
The baby kicked hard. I winced.
“That looked like a big one,” Grace said, concerned.
“They’re getting stronger. The doctor said it could happen any day now.”
She nodded slowly. “Are you scared?”
I thought for a long moment. A week ago, the answer would’ve been yes. But now?
“Not about the baby. I’m scared of what happens after. I’m scared I might have to do this alone.”
Grace reached over and held my hand.
“You won’t be alone. I meant what I said. You and that baby are my priority now. Whatever Alan chooses, I’m here.”
The baby kicked again—harder this time. Like they were ready to meet the world.
I looked down at my belly.
“I keep wondering what I’ll tell this baby about tonight. About their father choosing a party over being here.”
Grace gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
“You’ll tell them they were loved. So loved by their mom. And their grandma. That’s what matters most.”
The house felt different now. Like something had changed. I didn’t know if Alan was still at his sister’s, still pretending he was free.
But I knew one thing for sure.
I looked down at my belly and whispered, “No matter what your daddy does, you’ll never doubt that you’re loved. Not for one second.”
Soon, I’ll have hard decisions to make—about my marriage, about what kind of example I want to set for my children. Whether some things can be forgiven… or not.
But tonight, I’m just a mother, waiting for her baby.
And I’m not alone.