But instead of apologizing, he turned cold — almost irritated. He told me to “calm down for the baby’s sake” and went to bed as if I hadn’t just watched our marriage disintegrate.
The next morning, I called my mother. Through sobs, I told her everything — how I couldn’t bear to look at him, how betrayed I felt, how I wanted to leave and never come back.
Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “Sweetheart,” she said, “you can’t leave him. You’re about to give birth. You have to think about your child. Every baby needs a father.”
Those words broke me in a new way.
I wanted her to tell me I was strong. That I could do this on my own. That betrayal wasn’t something I had to live with. But instead, she told me to stay — to swallow my pain and pretend for the sake of stability.
So I stayed.
For the next month, I lived in silence. I barely spoke to him, and he didn’t seem to care. We coexisted like strangers in the same house, walking around each other carefully, as if we both knew a truth too heavy to speak.
Then the day came — the day I went into labor.
It was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, but instead, I cried through the contractions. Every push, every gasp felt like a fight between pain and heartbreak. The man who stood beside me, holding my hand, was the same man who had betrayed me, and I couldn’t separate the two.
When my son finally arrived, I looked at his tiny face and felt two emotions crash inside me — love and grief. Love for the little life I’d just brought into the world. Grief for the life I knew I had to leave behind.
My husband took a few pictures, muttered something about needing to make calls, and stepped out of the room. I thought I’d feel relief that he was gone, but instead, I felt empty.
Then, just as I was about to drift into exhausted sleep, I heard a familiar knock.
