I got pregnant at 19, on birth control, working two jobs, while my husband had none. Over dinner one night, he joked that I “baby trapped” him. I snapped back at him and said: If you were a little more educated, you’d know that.
He laughed it off like I was being dramatic, but I wasn’t. I was tired. Bone-tired.
I worked at a grocery store during the day and waited tables at night, while he sat home playing video games, talking about how the “right” job just hadn’t come along yet. Rent was due, the car needed tires, and I was throwing up every morning before clocking in. We’d been married for ten months at that point.
It had been a courthouse wedding, nothing fancy—my mom brought a grocery store cake and his cousin took a blurry photo on his phone. I was in love, or maybe just in deep denial. We’d moved fast, and I didn’t want to admit I’d made a mistake.
But that night at dinner, with my back aching and his plate still full of food I cooked, something inside me shifted. The pregnancy wasn’t planned. I’d been on the pill, like clockwork.
But life laughs at our plans, doesn’t it? The day I saw those two pink lines, I sat on the bathroom floor for a full hour. I thought about every way my life was going to change.
Then I thought about how his life would change—and I had this sinking feeling it wouldn’t, not much. Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I told him we’d get through it together.
He said all the right things at first. Talked about baby names. Rubbed my feet once.
But slowly, reality showed itself. I’d come home from work and find the sink full of dishes, laundry piled up, and him half-asleep on the couch. He wasn’t applying for jobs anymore—just “waiting for the right fit.” I didn’t have that luxury.
We started fighting more. I cried a lot in the bathroom. And when I started showing, I remember he said, “Damn, you’re getting big fast.” I laughed it off at the time, but it stung.
There was always a little jab in his jokes. Then one day, while folding laundry, I found a receipt from a vape shop for over $200. He’d used my debit card.
When I asked him about it, he got defensive. Said he “deserved something for himself too” since he was “helping me with the pregnancy.” I asked how, exactly. He didn’t have an answer.
Around that time, my boss at the restaurant, Raquel, started noticing something was off. One night, while we were closing, she sat me down in the breakroom and said, “I’ve been where you are. You don’t have to stay stuck.”
I didn’t know what she meant.
But it lingered in my head. Then came the baby shower. My mom hosted it in her backyard.
It was small—mostly family and a few of my coworkers. He didn’t even show up until it was half over. Claimed he’d forgotten the time.
Showed up in a wrinkled T-shirt and spent most of it on his phone. My aunt, who doesn’t mince words, pulled me aside and whispered, “You sure about this one, sweetheart?”
I smiled and nodded. But I wasn’t sure.
Not at all. The night our daughter, Reina, was born, he wasn’t even in the room. He’d “needed some air” and went to get food.
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