The week I was supposed to become a mom, my husband started acting strange.
Not nervous-strange. Not first-time-dad scared.
Strange like smiling at his phone. Strange like whispering and tilting the screen away when I walked by. Strange like making plans without me and telling me, over and over, that everything was “handled.”
I didn’t understand what that meant.
I didn’t realize until I went into labor that I wasn’t the only one about to give birth to something life-changing.
Call me Sloane.
I was 31. My husband, Beckett, was 33. We’d been married for four years. We had a house with creaky stairs, a joint checking account we argued over, and a baby boy on the way. We’d already named him Rowan.
I thought that meant we were a team.
The week before my due date, Beckett got weird.
And I mean really weird.
He was always on his phone. Smiling at it. Locking the screen the second I came near.
One night, I was folding tiny onesies on the couch, lining them up like they were soldiers, when I noticed him grinning at his phone again.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“You just focus on popping this kid out,” he said without looking up.
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m serious.”
“It’s just stuff,” he said, flipping the phone face down. “It’s handled.”
“What’s handled?” I asked.
“You don’t need to worry about it,” he said lightly. “You just focus on popping this kid out.”
I laughed, because that’s what you do when you want to believe your husband.
But a knot settled deep in my stomach and didn’t leave.
Friday morning, I woke up to pain so sharp it punched the air straight out of my lungs.
I gasped and grabbed the edge of the bed.
“I think this is it,” I whispered.
That was no false alarm.
Another contraction ripped through me, stealing my breath. I grabbed the dresser to stay upright.
“Beck,” I called, voice shaking. “I think this is it.”
He walked into the bedroom already dressed. Button-down shirt. Hair done. Cologne on.
He checked his watch.
“Are you sure it’s not Braxton Hicks?”
Another contraction hit, and I bent over, sweating.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Pretty sure,” I gasped.
He watched me for a second, then turned and walked down the hall.
I thought he was grabbing the hospital bag.
Instead, Beckett came back with his navy duffel bag.
The one he used for trips.
My stomach dropped.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Guys’ trip,” he said calmly. “We’ve had it planned for months.”
He set the duffel by the front door. “I have to leave.”
“Leave where?” I asked, even though I already knew.
“Guys’ trip,” he repeated. “We’ve had it planned for months.”
I stared at him. “I’m in labor.”
He sighed like I’d inconvenienced him.
“My mom can take you,” he said. “We talked. The deposit’s non-refundable. The guys are already on the road.”
“You planned to leave while I had the baby?” I whispered.
“Babe, you’re being dramatic,” he said. “You’re not even at the hospital yet. These things take forever. I’ll be a couple of hours away. If something serious happens, I’ll come back.”
“Me giving birth is something serious,” I said.
“Stress is bad for the baby,” he replied. “You’re tough. You’ll be fine.”
A contraction slammed into me so hard I cried out, clutching the counter.
He stared at me like he expected a fight.
Something inside me went cold. Sharp. Clear.
“If you’re going,” I said through clenched teeth, “go.”
He blinked, surprised. Then he kissed my forehead like I was running an errand, picked up his duffel, and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
“Text me your contraction times,” he called.
Another contraction hit.
Instead of texting him, I called my best friend Maris.
She answered immediately. “Yo, what’s—”
“I’m in labor,” I panted. “Real labor. Beckett just left for a guys’ trip. He said his mom would take me.”
Silence.
Then Maris said, calm and deadly serious, “Text me your contraction times. I’m leaving work right now. Do not drive. Do not wait for his mother.”
“I can drive,” I tried.
“Sloane,” she said, “if you white-knuckle it to the hospital by yourself, I will haunt you for the rest of your life. I’m almost there.”
She arrived in under ten minutes, still in her work blouse and sneakers, hair in a messy bun.
“Let’s go,” she said, grabbing the hospital bag Beckett had ignored.
The ride was a blur. I breathed. I swore. She ran yellow lights.
“You’re okay,” she kept saying. “You’re doing it. I’ve got you.”
At the hospital, a nurse checked me and raised her eyebrows.
“You’re at six centimeters,” she said. “We’re moving quickly.”
Everything sped up.
Monitors. Voices. Cold gel on my stomach.
I clamped my hand around Maris’s.
“Heart rate’s dipping.”
“Blood pressure low.”
“Prep for possible emergency C-section.”
A doctor leaned close. “Sloane, the baby didn’t like that last contraction, but he’s recovering. We’re watching it. Do you have a partner to call?”
“This is my person,” I said, nodding at Maris. “He’s not here.”
The doctor nodded once, like she understood more than she said.
Time turned stretchy and strange.
Push. Breathe. Wait.
Then—one final push—and the room filled with a sharp newborn scream.
“He’s here.”
They placed Rowan on my chest. Warm. Loud. Furious at the world.
I sobbed. “Hi, Rowan. It’s me. Sorry for…everything.”
“Hey, dude,” Maris whispered, brushing his hair.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Beckett.
A photo. Him and his friends at a bar, neon lights glowing, cocktails everywhere.
Caption: “Made it. Love you.”
My body went numb.
Maris saw it. Her face changed instantly.
“You remember what I do for work?” she asked.
“You work in an office,” I said weakly.
“Corporate compliance,” she replied. “Internal investigations. HR’s bat signal.”
She pulled out her laptop.
“I’m not telling you what to do,” she said gently. “I’m telling you there should be a record of this.”
She took photos of my hospital bracelet. The whiteboard with my admit time. The contraction log. The text with the timestamp.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
“Facts,” she said. “No opinions.”
Later, my mother-in-law stormed in.
“Oh, my goodness, he’s beautiful,” she said, hovering over Rowan. Then she turned to me. “Where’s Beckett?”
“You tell me,” I said.
“He was stressed,” she snapped. “Men don’t always handle things well.”
“He left while I was in labor.”
“You’re being unforgiving.”
Maris closed her laptop. “He abandoned a documented medical emergency for a party.”
My MIL stiffened. “What did you do?”
“I emailed HR,” Maris said calmly.
My MIL gasped. “You’ll get him fired!”
“If that happens,” Maris replied, “it’s because of what he did.”
That night, Beckett called.
“What did you do?” he yelled. “HR called me!”
“I had a baby,” I said. “What did you do?”
The next morning, he arrived with a drugstore bouquet.
“I messed up,” he said.
“A mistake is forgetting the hospital bag,” I replied. “You packed a duffel and left.”
A nurse entered with a clipboard.
“We documented that you were in active labor without a support person present,” she said. “That triggers follow-up. Standard procedure in possible abandonment.”
Beckett’s face went gray.
Two weeks later, HR called me.
“For your awareness,” the woman said, “our investigation also uncovered falsified travel expenses.”
Later that day, Beckett stood in our living room.
“They fired me,” he said.
“I didn’t know about the fake trips,” I replied.
“You win,” he said bitterly.
“I didn’t win,” I said. “I stopped lying.”
That night, I opened Rowan’s baby book.
Who was there when you were born?
I wrote: Me. Maris. The nurses.
Then I added: Not your father.
I didn’t feel triumphant.
I felt clear.
The consequences weren’t revenge.
They were the truth—finally landing, loud and final, on the person who had earned them.