My name is Emily. I’m 29 and finishing my first pregnancy.
My eagerness and anxiousness seem to wrap around me like I’m on the verge of something lovely yet overpowering. When I’m alone on the faded beige sofa in our modest house outside Austin on peaceful afternoons, I rest my palm on my tummy, feel my baby’s feet flutter, and murmur, “Mommy’s right here.”
My 33-year-old husband Lucas does corporate accounting. He complains about being overworked and anxious and has to “recharge” on weekends. Almost every Friday, he travels two hours to his parents’ house. I’ve adjusted to the silence, wandering from kitchen to sofa with a growing tummy. Lucas seldom moves around the home. I asked him to organize the nursery. He murmured, “Aren’t you on maternity leave? You have time.”
A Saturday when I attempted to lift a hefty bag of dog food from the vehicle would never leave me. I stood in the driveway, hot and back-aching, longing for help. He was trekking with his dad. I texted him and received only: You’re strong. You got this.
I sometimes sit in the kitchen alone, thinking, “Did I marry the wrong man?” But then my baby kicks quietly, assuring me I’m not alone.
Lucas wasn’t always this way. He started being nice and attentive. Everything changed when I became pregnant. The sullen, frigid man snapped often. He bluntly remarked, “Seriously?” when I failed to get his favorite coffee. Spend all day at home and forget coffee? His remarks hurt, but I kept silent. My hormones, he said. Despite the anguish, I smiled and muttered, Just wait. It will improve when the baby arrives. But part of me worried I was deceiving myself.
My back hurt early that morning. I prepared Lucas coffee in the kitchen. I placed the cup next to a modest breakfast. He entered with his phone scrolling. The toast burned. Can’t you handle a Toaster?
Bit my lip. “Sorry. It’s behaving odd.”
“Whatever,” he murmured. “I bet Mom has pancakes ready.” It was another jab, not just the toast. I could never measure up to his mother, Denise. After hearing the comparisons so often, they become background noise. Today, with swollen ankles and a stretched tummy, I couldn’t take it quietly.
“Oh, and Mom invited us to dinner tonight,” he said. Don’t forget gifts. She still hates that awful candle you gave her.”
Staying in. I must rest. Coming due date.”
“Don’t repeat that. Pregnant ladies are strong. My mother worked till she gave birth. You sit around putting images on your ridiculous blog.”
My tiny lifeline is that blog. I post sunsets, dinners, and ups and downs. Stuff Lucas ignores.
After having supper alone, I quietly cleaned the kitchen. My home seemed strangely vacant, like I was the only one there. Pushing my head against the cabinet door, I fought tears. I thought pregnancy would be kind and supportive. I feel like a burden, a housemaid at home.
Lucas startled me Sunday morning by saying, “Emily, pack your bags.” My family and I are going to Colorado Springs next week. Final excursion before baby.”
I froze. “Next week? The doctor indicated I might give birth anytime.”
Waved me off. “God, you’re always dramatic. Fresh air helps. Mom claimed mountain air is beneficial.”
I knew fighting wouldn’t help. I silently packed, hoping for no problems. On journey day, as I nestled into the vehicle seat, I felt a weird pressure in my lower tummy. I felt a warm rush through my clothing. My water broke.
Lucas, it’s happening. Have to go to hospital. Now.”
He looked at me, unhappy that I ruined his holiday. “What? Right now?”
“Yes! Not a drill! The baby is arriving!
Lucas stood outside and gazed at the wet area instead of running in. “Seriously? You damaged the seat? You couldn’t hold it?
I sat dumbfounded. Lucas, please. I need aid.”
He sighed in irritation and opened the door. Get out. I won’t wreck this automobile. Uber or something.”
I froze. What are you saying? I can’t travel alone.”
“No time. My parents await. I won’t miss this vacation because you’re worried.” Lucas removed my luggage from the trunk, dropped it down on the curb, and drove off, leaving me alone on the sidewalk as my first contraction began.
I summoned an ambulance with my last power. Then a vehicle drew up alongside me. A familiar voice said, “Emily?” Her neighbor Rachel lived a few homes down. She left with a worried look. “Your water broke! Get in. Will take you.”
She clutched my hand hard to soothe me on the way to the hospital. “Where’s your husband?” she inquired softly. I remained silent. I glanced out the window, quietly crying.
Then I woke up to the hospital’s faint fluorescent lights. Rachel was with me with a warm paper cup of coffee when I woke up.
“You’re awake,” she whispered. “You and the baby are fine.”
“My baby…?”
This is a girl. Rachel tenderly squeezed my hand, “She’s perfect.” “Everything went well.”
My parents hurried in shortly as the door opened. My weeping mother collapsed into my arms. My typically stoic father seemed startled and red-eyed. “We’re so sorry, Emily,” my mom cried. “We should’ve helped you.”
Rachel turned as she left and whispered, “There’s something else. Lucas phoned me after I brought you. I remained silent. A message was left. One question: Is Emily okay?
Bitter laughter. He said nothing else after leaving me on the road.
Rachel stared at me. “If you need support, I saw it all. I’ll speak.”
That night, a nurse approached silently. Miss Rachel left a message and envelope. You could need it.” Inside was ER surveillance film of me being brought in, drenched and quiet. Proof without doubt. I glanced at my sleeping daughter and murmured, “No one will hurt us again.” Not ever.” I knew then—this was my start.
Rachel returned three days later. “Emily, have you seen the news?” she questioned, giving me her phone footage. My stomach flipped. As Lucas drove away, I trembled on the pavement, heavily pregnant. A passing med student videotaped it. A viral clip with over two million views in two days.
“People didn’t know who you were at first,” Rachel said. “The license plate was traced. Lucas was recognized that way. Your data is protected. But everyone knows his deed.”
His reputation was deteriorating. “He’s suspended,” she said. He was dismissed this morning. They cited corporate reputation damage.”
Unsure how to feel. Justice may have spoken briefly.
With my newborn daughter in my arms, I left the hospital thinking. My parents made a room for us. Lucas began phoning incessantly and sending guilt-filled texts three days later. Do not exaggerate. Panicked. Mom and dad are heartbroken.
I remained mute. The blaming began: You lost me my job. This is your fault. That was my line. Fight back.
My dad, a distinguished lawyer, introduced me to Clara Weston, a divorce attorney. She got audio recordings and medical video from me. Clara nods. This suffices. Let me do the hard part. You prioritize your daughter.”
Filing for divorce. Lucas was angry. Over one event, you’re terminating our marriage? You want money?
I recorded the call silently and sent it to Clara.
“He’s resisting,” she said. But that’s OK. Take it to court.”
His ex-employer, wanting to preserve face, submitted Lucas’s financials, including a hidden bonus. Clara immediately froze the monies for child support.
Lucas arrived at our first mediation without a lawyer and disheveled clothing. “She’s dragging my name through the mud,” he growled.
Clara kept calm. After the films, she showed hospital footage. Silence filled the room. “You talk about parenting, but maybe you’re not fit,” she added.
Lucas signed the paperwork days later. I held my kid outdoors in the fresh night air after the judge decided support. “We’re free now,” I muttered. “And everything will change.”
After our divorce, news spread. Lucas’s home was repossessed. His mother closed her café. Business ceased. Lucas disappeared and returned as a rural town waiter.
I went back to work. My parents and Rachel helped me settle in. Grace, my daughter, thrived. One park day, a lady stopped me. Are you Emily? Have read your blog. You’re courageous. Thank you.”
I grinned. I never anticipated such blissful freedom.
Time passed. I became closer to Rachel than neighbors. We met her 32-year-old structural engineer son, Daniel, who had a calm, profound stare. He was quiet and gentle. His entire face brightened up when he saw Grace.
Simple hellos and chatter started it. Then more. After the others went inside one cold evening, he took two cups of ginger tea on the porch. “Emily,” he said softly, “have you ever considered starting again?”
I regarded the darkness. “I haven’t even learned how to dream again,” I muttered.
“That’s okay,” Daniel replied. Acknowledging your feelings—that’s a start.”
From then on, he was quieter and more present. Supporting Grace as I slept, mending things around the home, and cleaning after supper.
Grace shrieked with glee when Daniel carried her into the skies one weekend. My chest swelled—warmer, not painful.
Evening, he greeted me on the back stairs. His hand holds a little wooden bracelet. Carefully engraved my and Grace’s names. “I don’t know what place I’ll have in your story,” he added, “but if you’ll have me, I want to be there.”
I gazed at him long before touching him. “I don’t know what comes next,” I replied. “This time, I know we’re not alone.”
Because happiness doesn’t always arrive early. When it happens, the wait is worth it.