I was 39 weeks pregnant—exhausted, aching, and carrying the weight of both my body and my emotions—but I still tried to put on a brave smile for my husband Alan’s 39th birthday dinner. I wanted it to feel special, a moment for us to enjoy as a family before the baby arrived. Instead, what he said at the table cut me so deeply that I took my daughter’s hand, walked out, and left everyone stunned. That night, I knew life would never be the same again.
My name is Catherine, though most people call me Cathy. At 38 years old, expecting our second child, I felt worn thin. Every step sent pain shooting down my legs, and sleep was something I could barely remember. My daughter Zoey—just four years old, full of curiosity and boundless energy—was both my greatest joy and my biggest daily challenge. This pregnancy had been far tougher than my first, and my doctor constantly urged me to rest. But rest was impossible when Alan was hardly around. He had been to only one ultrasound, ignored my pleas to help with the nursery, and left the crib still leaning against the wall, surrounded by unopened boxes—a reminder of promises he never kept.