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 suddenly arrived, as if the calendar had skipped ahead without asking me.
“Actually, I’m not feeling well today,” I told David that morning, one hand pressed into the small of my back. “I’m worried about the baby, so I’m going to rest at home.”
He looked unconvinced, his keys already in his hand.
“Anyway, you can just rest in the car,” he said impatiently. “You’ll be fine, right? Come on, bring the luggage. We’re heading to my parents’ place, so hurry up.”
As we walked out to the driveway, I felt a knot of worry tightening in my stomach. The sky was bright and cloudless, the American flag on our neighbor’s porch snapping in the breeze, but my thoughts were heavy. After loading our luggage into the trunk, I eased myself into the passenger seat, adjusting my seat belt carefully across my belly.
Just as David started the engine, I felt a sudden warmth at my feet. I looked down. Water was spreading across the floor mat.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “My water broke.”
I turned to David, my heart pounding. “David, I think my water just broke. Please take me to the hospital. Quickly.”
He stared at my feet, frozen for a moment. Then, taken aback by the situation, he blurted, “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the panic rising inside me. “We need to go to the hospital now. The baby might be coming.”
While I pressed a towel between my knees, trying to stop the fluid from soaking everything, David suddenly opened the passenger door.
“David, what are you doing? We need to go to the hospital,” I said.
“Get out,” he snapped. “You’re going to make a mess in the car.”
I stared at him, completely shocked. “What are you saying?”
“I said get out. I need to clean the car,” he insisted.
Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the seat. My legs trembled as I tried to balance on the driveway.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “We were supposed to be on a family trip. Just go to the hospital by yourself.”
I was too stunned to respond. “Wait!” I cried, clutching my belly. “How can you leave me here like this?”
But he had already slid back behind the wheel. The engine revved, the tires rolled over the concrete, and he drove away, leaving me standing in our suburban driveway in my loose maternity clothes, my water broken, the world suddenly too bright and too sharp.
Feeling overwhelmed, I grabbed my phone and dialed for an ambulance with shaking fingers. As I stood there, trying to breathe through the first contractions, someone approached.
“Lisa, are you okay?” a familiar voice asked.
It was Sarah, her face filled with concern. She must have seen everything from her front yard or through her living room window.
“Oh my God,” she said, taking in the scene. “You’re in labor.”
