My name is Catherine, but everyone calls me Cathy. I’m 38 years old, 39 weeks pregnant, and waiting for baby number two to arrive any day now.
My body feels like it’s about to split in half. My belly is so stretched that I swear it might pop like a balloon. Every step sends sharp pain shooting down my legs. Sleep? Forget it. I haven’t had a full night of rest in weeks.
We already have our daughter Zoey. She’s four years old—full of questions, full of energy, and always bouncing around with her little pigtails. She’s my sunshine, but keeping up with her while carrying another baby has been harder than I ever imagined.
The doctor keeps warning me.
“Cathy, you need to take it easy,” Dr. Smith said at my last appointment. “Rest is crucial now.”
Rest. Sure. Easy to say. But tell that to Alan, my husband.
Alan has been to exactly one ultrasound. Just one, out of all the dozens I’ve had. Every other appointment, every blood test, every worry—I went through it alone.
When I asked him why, he’d shrug and say, “I have to work, Cath. Someone has to pay the bills.”
But it wasn’t just work. Weekends too. While I struggled to chase Zoey around with swollen ankles and back pain, he’d disappear with some excuse.
And don’t get me started on the nursery. I’ve begged him for months to help me move boxes, hang curtains, set up the crib. Simple things.
“I’ll get to it,” he’d promise. Every single time.
But the nursery still sits half-finished. The crib leans against the wall untouched, and the boxes are still piled up like junk.
Two weeks ago, I asked him again, “When are you going to finish this, Alan? The baby’s almost here.”
He snapped, “Soon, Cath. God, you’re always nagging.”
Nagging. That word burned.
So when his birthday rolled around last Tuesday, I thought maybe, just maybe, we’d have a nice night together. His sister Kelly called that morning.
“I want to throw him a little party at my place,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Just family dinner. You, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and Jake.”
It actually sounded nice.
“That sounds wonderful, Kelly. Thank you,” I told her.
I got dressed as best I could—slipped into my old maternity dress, the one that used to make Alan smile back when I was pregnant with Zoey. He didn’t even notice this time.
We arrived at Kelly’s around six. The apartment smelled of roast chicken, and soft jazz floated through the air. Candles glowed on the table, and for a second, I thought—maybe this will be good.
Alan’s mom, Grace, hugged him tightly. “Happy birthday, son!” she said. Grace has always been more of a mother to me than my own.
“Thanks, Mom. This looks great, Kel,” Alan grinned.
Dinner started out fine. Kelly cooked all of Alan’s favorites: roast chicken with herbs, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. Zoey babbled about her preschool day, Jake shared funny stories from the firehouse, and Grace asked how I was feeling.
I kept shifting in my seat, trying to ignore the pain stabbing my back. My body was screaming at me, but I wanted Alan to have this moment. His night. His celebration.
And then—everything shattered.
Halfway through the main course, Alan turned to me with this big, excited 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. “What do you mean?”
He leaned back, still smiling. “Come on, babe! This is my last chance to really celebrate before the baby comes. I want to drink some beer 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 the plate.
“You want me to leave? To drive home alone with Zoey? While I’m 39 weeks pregnant?”
Alan shrugged. “Well, yeah. You’re tired anyway, right? You’re always grumbling about that. And someone needs to put Zoey to bed.”
I just stared at him. This man I’d built a life with. The man who was supposed to be my partner.
“Alan,” I said quietly. “The baby could come tonight.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Cath. Don’t be dramatic.”
That’s when Grace set her fork down and slowly stood up. Her face was tight, her voice deadly calm.
“Alan. Would you mind repeating what you just said to your wife?”
Alan looked around nervously. “I just… I asked her to take Zoey home so I could celebrate my birthday.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Your 39-weeks-pregnant wife. Who could go into labor any moment. You want her to drive home alone with your four-year-old so you can drink and smoke cigars?”
Alan shifted uncomfortably. “Mom, it’s not—”
“Sit down, Alan.”
He sat.
Grace walked over and placed her hands gently on my shoulders. Her voice cut like a knife.
“Catherine is carrying your child. She is exhausted, in pain, and about to give birth. And instead of taking care of her, you want to send her away so you can party?”
Alan muttered, “It’s just one night.”
“One night?” Grace’s voice rose. “What if she goes into labor while you’re drunk here? What then? She calls an Uber while you’re too wasted to drive?”
She wasn’t done. “This woman has gone through every appointment, every checkup, every ultrasound alone. She’s begged you to help prepare for the baby, and you’ve done nothing. You act like this pregnancy is her problem instead of something you’re both in together.”
The table went silent. Kelly stared at her plate. Jake cleared his throat. Zoey looked around, confused.
Alan stammered, “Mom, you don’t understand—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Grace shot back. “I understand my son has forgotten what it means to be a husband.”
I whispered, “I’m going home.”
Grace squeezed my shoulders. “I’m coming with you. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
I stood slowly, every bone in my body aching.
“Come on, baby girl,” I told Zoey, holding out my hand.
She frowned. “Is Daddy coming too?”
I looked at Alan. He just sat there, staring at his plate.
“No, honey. Daddy wants to stay here. And party.”
Zoey’s little face fell, but she took my hand anyway.
We didn’t say goodbye.
The drive home was quiet except for Grace humming softly to calm Zoey. “Why is everyone sad?” Zoey asked from the backseat.
“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, baby,” I said.
“Will you and Daddy be okay?” she asked.
I caught Grace’s eyes in the mirror. She gave me a small, sad smile.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. I really don’t know.”
Back at the house, Grace helped put Zoey to bed while I collapsed on the couch, my back throbbing.
“Grandma, will you read to me?” Zoey asked, clutching her favorite book.
“Of course, little one,” Grace said softly.
When she came back downstairs, she carried two mugs of tea. She sat beside me.
“How long has he been like this?” she asked.
“Since I got pregnant. Maybe longer. I don’t even know anymore,” I admitted.
The baby kicked hard inside me. Grace’s eyes followed my hand rubbing my belly.
“That looked like a strong one.”
“They’re getting stronger. Doctor says it could be any day now.”
She nodded. “Are you scared?”
I thought about it. “Not about the baby. I’m scared about everything else. About what happens next. About whether I can do this alone.”
Grace squeezed my hand. “You won’t be alone. Whatever my son decides, you’ll have me. You and the kids are my priority.”
Another strong kick made me wince. I whispered to my belly, “I don’t know what your daddy’s thinking right now, little one. But I promise you this—you’ll never doubt that you’re loved. Not for a single second.”
Alan still hadn’t come home. I didn’t know if he was still at Kelly’s, laughing and drinking, pretending like nothing had happened.
But as I sat there with Grace by my side, I realized something. Very soon, I’ll have hard decisions to make. About my marriage. About the example I want to set for my kids. About whether some choices can ever be forgiven.
For now, I’m just a mother waiting for her baby. Surrounded by the people who truly love us. Ready to fight for the family my children deserve—even if it doesn’t look like the family I once imagined.