“You’ll be fine going to the hospital alone, right? If you keep making a fuss, I swear I’ll send you straight to hell.”
Those words would come later, like a crack across glass at the worst possible moment. But they were the sentence that kept echoing in my head when everything finally broke.
My name is Lisa, and I’m nine months pregnant.
It’s my first time giving birth, so even though I’m filled with anxiety, I also feel genuinely blessed about welcoming a new member into our family. We live in a quiet suburb just outside Denver, Colorado, the kind with wide streets, small lawns, and American flags hanging from porches. My husband, David, is a white-collar worker at a mid-sized company downtown.
He has weekends off, but he doesn’t offer much support around the house or help with shopping. Most weekends he just drives fifteen minutes over to his parents’ single-story house on the next cul-de-sac and spends the day there without any real reason, just sitting in their kitchen, watching TV with them, acting like he’s still the boy who never left home.
Since becoming pregnant, I’ve been careful about lifting heavy objects. When I buy big bags of rice or packs of bottled water at the supermarket, kind friends and neighbors often help me.
My daily routine is simple: I wake up early, make coffee and breakfast for David, and see him off in his neatly pressed shirt and tie. Afterward, I clean the apartment, do laundry, and head out in my comfy sneakers for any necessary shopping at the local grocery store or Target. When I return home, I start prepping for dinner.
Only after finishing these tasks can I finally sit down on the couch by the window and have a bit of time to relax.
Since taking maternity leave from my office job, I’ve picked up a new hobby: blogging. Every day I write a small diary entry, accompanied by photos I take on my phone—simple meals I’ve cooked, the wide Colorado sky, the flowers blooming in the little garden outside our townhouse, sunlight falling across the street, neighbors walking their dogs. Friends and acquaintances from all over the States leave comments, and those gentle interactions have become small daily joys for me.
One evening, as I was preparing dinner—homemade hamburgers, a little salad, iced tea—the front door opened.
David came home as usual, the sound of his dress shoes dull against the hardwood. He carelessly dropped his leather bag and jacket onto the sofa, and I walked over, picked them up, and hung them on the coat rack by the door.
“Welcome back,” I said. “I made hamburgers for dinner.”
“I’m going to take a bath,” he replied, without looking at me, and headed straight for the bathroom.
We’d been married for three years, and there had been very little kindness or consideration from him in all that time.
I sometimes wondered if this was what a marriage was supposed to feel like in real life—two people living side by side more like roommates than partners—but most days I just told myself it was easier to accept things than to fight.
When David came back out in his pajamas and flopped onto the sofa, I handed him a drink.
“Where’s the beer?” he asked, glancing toward the little bar cart pushed up against the wall.
“I… I’m sorry,” I said. “I forgot to buy it today. I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”
“Seriously?” His expression hardened immediately.
“Go to the convenience store now.”
His sudden change in demeanor irritated me. I stared at my big belly, at the way my shirt stretched over it.
“Why do I have to go?” I asked, my voice tight. “If you want beer that badly, why don’t you go yourself?
It’s hard for me to move around with this belly.”
He got even angrier and started shouting. “You’re the one who forgot to buy it. It’s your job to fix that mistake.
Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you get special treatment. My mother always says it’s important to keep moving for your health.”
I knew from experience that he didn’t calm down easily once he was angry. The veins in his neck were standing out; the TV flickered behind him with some baseball game he wasn’t even watching.
Reluctantly, I grabbed my wallet and keys.
“I’ll go,” I murmured.
The evening air outside was cool and dry, the streetlights casting long shadows over parked cars. As I walked toward the 24-hour convenience store on the corner—past neatly trimmed lawns and a big American flag fluttering from a neighbor’s porch—I tried to swallow my frustration.
Once I arrived, I bumped into Sarah, a neighbor who lived a few houses down. She was holding a bottle of barbecue sauce and a small shopping basket.
“Oh, Sarah, good evening,” I said.
“Good evening, Lisa,” she replied, her smile warm.
“Did you forget to buy something too? I ran out of sauce, so I rushed over here.”
Her cheerful voice lifted my spirits a little.
“My husband really wanted beer,” I admitted. “He told me to come buy it.
I suggested he go himself, but that didn’t go over well.”
“It sounds like you’re having a tough time, Lisa,” she said gently.
We chatted for a few minutes, walking back along the suburban sidewalk together until we reached the crossroad where our ways parted. After saying goodbye, I headed home alone with the paper bag of clinking bottles.
When I opened the door, David was sprawled on the sofa watching TV, the dinner table still messy from the meal.
“Why did it take you so long?” he snapped. “What were you dawdling around for?
Give me the beer.”
His disgruntled tone and insensitive words made my chest ache. I handed him the beer without saying anything and started clearing the dishes, scraping food into the trash and loading the dishwasher.
How could he say things like that to me, especially when I was pregnant? I wanted to answer back, but I didn’t want another shouting match.
So I held everything in. After cleaning up, I ate my own dinner alone, took a long bath, and went to bed without waiting for him.
The next morning, David acted as if nothing had happened. He shook the sleep from his hair, tied his tie in the bathroom mirror, and scrolled through his phone like any other day.
I, however, couldn’t forget his words from the night before, and I was cold toward him on purpose.
“Why are you making that face so early in the morning?” he complained.
“Don’t take it out on me. I’m heading to work now, so be a bit considerate, okay? You know the importance of appreciation, right?”
For a moment, I was filled with the urge to throw his own words back at him—That applies to you, doesn’t it?—but the shock and disbelief choked the reply in my throat.
I simply sighed, handed him his lunch, and walked him to the door.
“Be careful,” I said automatically.
“I want a proper dinner tonight,” he threw over his shoulder. “See you.”
Without any further explanation, David rushed out, slamming the door behind him.
After he left, I took care of household chores and went shopping as usual. He had mentioned he wouldn’t be having dinner at home because of a company drinking party, so I decided to prepare something simple just for myself that evening.
Later, as I was about to start my solo dinner in the quiet kitchen, I heard the front door open and hurried to the entrance.
“I’m back,” David said.
“Long day.”
“Thanks for your hard work,” I answered automatically. “But you said you didn’t need dinner today, remember?”
“Yeah, well, the drinking party got cancelled,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “I’m hungry.
You have something to eat, right?”
“I… only prepared a meal for myself,” I admitted.
His face contorted with anger.
“You didn’t even consider the possibility I might come back?” he shouted. “Unbelievable.”
He stalked into the dining area, looked at the simple plate I’d prepared for myself, and his mood worsened.
“What do you call this? A meal?” he scoffed.
“I seriously question whether you’re properly doing your duties as a housewife. Don’t waste the money I’m working for.”
“I quickly put something together just for me,” I said quietly. “Please don’t be so angry.
If you don’t like it, I can—”
“Maybe you should learn proper cooking from my mom,” he cut in. “Honestly, I’ve always found your cooking lacking.”
Once again he was comparing me to his mother, and he didn’t seem to realize how hurtful those comparisons were. Every sentence felt like a little cut.
“I can’t eat this,” he said coldly.
“Go buy something.”
My heart sank lower.
“It’s already late,” I replied. “I’ve taken a bath and changed. Can’t you go buy it yourself, just this once?”
“Forget it,” he snapped.
“You forgot to buy beer yesterday, didn’t prepare dinner today… this is so frustrating. I’m going back to my parents’ place.”
He stormed out, and the door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a moment, I just stood in the silence of our little living room, listening to the humming refrigerator and the distant sound of a car passing on our street.
Then, strangely, I felt a small sense of relief at being alone.
The next morning, as I expected, my phone lit up with an angry call from David’s mother.
“How can you not serve David a proper meal?” she demanded in a sharp voice that carried straight through the speaker.
“This feels like harassment, if not worse.”
I explained what had happened the night before, but she refused to accept my side of the story at all. In the end, I apologized out of sheer exhaustion and ended the call. After that, my mood sank even further.
Since David wasn’t home, I made myself a leisurely late brunch, sitting by the kitchen window and watching cars turning into driveways up and down the street.
But the thought of him coming back that night weighed heavily on my mind. Considering the fiasco from the day before, I decided to make that evening’s dinner special.
I went to the supermarket and shopped more carefully than usual, picking out fresh ingredients and adding his favorite brand of beer to the cart. I shortened my blog update so I could spend more time cooking.
By the time I finished preparing everything, the table looked beautiful—almost like a special occasion, with dishes laid out neatly and a little vase of flowers in the center.
Looking at it all, I felt a small sense of accomplishment and couldn’t help praising myself quietly. With this, he should definitely be satisfied.
I waited in the dining room for David to come home. The clock on the wall ticked past seven, then eight.
There was no sign of him. I tried calling his phone several times, but there was no answer. My texts were left unread.
As time crawled by—one hour, then two—I grew increasingly anxious.
Had he gone to his parents’ house again? I called them to check, but they said he hadn’t been there either. I tried David’s phone multiple times, but there was still no response.
As midnight approached, I stood in the dimly lit living room, staring at the front door and wondering if I should contact the police.
Just then, I heard someone fumbling with the doorknob. The door opened, and David staggered in, clearly drunk, the smell of alcohol washing over me.
“I’m home,” he hiccuped.
I rushed to the entrance and found him lying half-sprawled on the hallway floor, one shoe half-off.
“What happened? Are you okay?” I asked, reaching out.
“Too loud,” he muttered angrily.
“Go away.”
He staggered toward the dining room, and when I tried to support him, he violently shook off my hand.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me with that ugly face,” he slurred. “To think you’re my wife…”
Then he just lay down right there on the floor, like a dropped coat.
His words were beyond shocking.
Why? Why couldn’t he consider anyone’s feelings other than his own? His drunken cruelty hurt me so deeply that for a second I couldn’t breathe.
I wondered if he even saw me as family anymore.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at the untouched dinner still waiting on the table. I had put so much effort into cooking, and it had all been for nothing. In the end, I quietly ate my cold meal alone and went to bed, wrapped in loneliness.
The next morning, David woke up acting as if nothing had happened.
“My head hurts,” he groaned, rubbing his temples.
“I guess I drank too much. But why did you just leave me in the hallway?”
“You chose to lie down there, David,” I said steadily. “That was your decision, not mine.”
“Aren’t you my wife?” he shot back.
“At least take care of me when I’m drunk.”
His words made me wonder why he always blamed me first. Why was it always my fault?
“If you weren’t going to eat at home, you could have at least let me know,” I said. “I prepared a nice meal, and I called you multiple times.
Why didn’t you answer?”
He shrugged, still not looking at me. “My drinking party from the day before got rescheduled to yesterday,” he said dully. “Do I have to report every little thing?
Besides, you know how hard it is to pick up the phone during a gathering. Think about my situation.”
With every word, my heart grew colder. My expectations for him slowly shrank down to almost nothing.
I told myself that if I expected less, I wouldn’t feel as hurt or disappointed.
“I’m taking a break and going back to my parents’ home tomorrow,” he announced soon after. “Being with you lately feels unpleasant and boring.”
Seeing his attitude—his obvious sense of superiority—made me start to seriously consider divorce. But our baby was due soon, and that complicated everything.
Our baby.
Just thinking those words made my heart race with anticipation. I had heard stories from friends about the pain of labor, but my excitement at meeting the little life inside me overshadowed those fears. Neighbors in our community often smiled and called out from their porches, “Just a little while longer now, Lisa,” and their encouragement brightened my mood.
One evening after work, David came home and made a surprising suggestion.
“Let’s go on a family trip soon,” he said casually, kicking off his work shoes and heading straight for the couch.
“Really?” I asked.
“You mean the three of us, after the baby’s born?”
“I’m talking about a family trip,” he said. “My mom and dad want to join.”
I was taken aback. There had always been tension between me and David’s parents.
Whenever something happened concerning David, they blamed me without hesitation, like with the phone call about the dinner. The sudden idea of a trip with them made every muscle in my body go tense.
“I’m about to give birth,” I said carefully. “Traveling a long distance right now might be risky for the baby.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” David snapped.
“Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you’re sick. My parents are thoughtfully inviting us.”
“But what if something happens while we’re away?” I asked. “It’s a long drive, and—”
“It’ll be fine,” he cut me off.
“Everything’s already decided. We’ll go for two nights and three days next week.”
“Next week?” My voice rose. “Next week is my due date.
That’s—”
“Just do as you’re told,” he said sharply. “Prepare for the trip. End of discussion.”
He made his declaration and walked out of the room, leaving me staring at the wall, my hand resting protectively over my belly.
“I’m in trouble now,” I thought, the words sounding small even in my own head.
The next day, I met up with a close friend at a café near the hospital and explained the situation.
She listened, her brow furrowing deeper and deeper.
“That’s more than a bit too much,” she said. “You need to think about you and the baby before anything else.”
I kept turning her words over in my mind, trying to figure out how to refuse the trip. But while I hesitated, the day of departure sudde
What happened next changed everything…
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