I’m 39 weeks pregnant, and I was trying to smile through the pain and exhaustion at my husband’s birthday dinner last week. Then he turned to me and said something that made me grab my daughter’s hand and walk out. I’ll never forget that night.
I’m sure nobody in the family will. My name’s Catherine, but everyone calls me Cathy. I’m 38, and 39 weeks pregnant with baby number two.
The baby could come any day now. My belly stretches so tight I feel like a balloon ready to burst. Every step sends shooting pains down my legs.
Sleep? What’s that? I haven’t seen a full night’s rest in weeks.
We already have Zoey. She’s four, all pigtails and endless questions. This pregnancy has been different though.
Harder, honestly. The doctor says it’s because I’m over 35. High risk, they call it.
“Cathy, you need to take it easy,” Dr. Smith told me last week. “Rest is crucial now.”
Rest.
Right. Tell that to Alan. My husband has made it to exactly one ultrasound appointment.
One…
out of dozens. While I’ve been to every checkup, every test, and every moment of worry alone. “I have to work, Cath,” he always says.
“Someone has to pay the bills.”
But weekends? He works those too. He was voluntarily leaving me to chase a four-year-old around while my back screams and my feet swell like balloons.
I’ve been begging him for months to help with the nursery. Simple things, you know. Move boxes.
Hang curtains. Set up the crib. “I’ll get to it,” he promised.
Every. Single. Time.
The nursery still sits half-finished. Boxes are scattered everywhere. No curtains.
And the crib leans against the wall like a forgotten thought. “When are you going to finish this?” I asked him two weeks ago, rubbing my aching lower back. “Soon, Cath.
God, you’re always nagging.”
Nagging? Right. So, last Tuesday was Alan’s 39th birthday.
His sister Kelly called that morning. “I want to throw him a little party at my place. Nothing fancy.
Just family dinner. You, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and my boyfriend Jake.”
It sounded nice. I thought maybe we could have one peaceful evening together.
“That sounds wonderful, Kelly. Thank you.”
I spent the afternoon getting ready. Well, as ready as a woman who looks like she swallowed a watermelon.
I put on my nicest maternity dress. The old one that used to make Alan smile when I was pregnant with our first child. He didn’t even notice.
We arrived at Kelly’s apartment around six. The smell of roast chicken filled the air. Soft jazz played from the speakers.
Candles flickered on the dining table. It was heavenly. “Happy birthday, son!” Grace, Alan’s mother, hugged him tight.
She’s always been kind to me. She’s more of a mother than my own, really. “Thanks, Mom.
This looks great, Kel.”
***
Dinner started pleasantly enough. Kelly had made all of Alan’s favorites. Roast chicken with herbs.
Mashed potatoes. Green bean casserole. The birthday cake sat on the counter, chocolate with vanilla frosting.
Zoey chattered about her day at preschool. Grace asked about my pregnancy. Jake told funny stories from his job at the fire station.
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