I was 39 weeks pregnant, exhausted and in pain, but I still tried to put on a smile for my husband Alan’s 39th birthday dinner. I wanted the night to feel special, a moment for us to be together as a family before our baby arrived. Instead, his words at the table cut so deeply that I grabbed my daughter’s hand and walked out, leaving everyone stunned. That night, I realized nothing would ever be the same.
My name is Catherine—everyone calls me Cathy. At 38, expecting our second child, my body felt stretched to its limits. Every step sent sharp jolts down my legs, and sleep had become a rare luxury. Our daughter Zoey, a bright and curious four-year-old, was my joy but also my daily challenge. This pregnancy had been harder than the last, and my doctor repeatedly urged me to rest. But rest was impossible when Alan was rarely around. He attended only one ultrasound and dismissed every request for help with the nursery. The crib still leaned against the wall, boxes piled high—a symbol of promises left undone.
When his sister Kelly invited us to a small family dinner for Alan’s birthday, I hoped it might be a calm evening for all of us. I wore my best maternity dress, the one Alan once loved. He didn’t notice. At Kelly’s apartment, the table was beautifully set, the smell of roast chicken filled the air, and family gathered warmly around him. For a moment, it felt almost perfect.
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