I thought pregnancy would bring us closer—me and Doug. That we’d hold hands through it all, navigate the swollen ankles and mood swings like a team. But at seven months pregnant, waddling like a penguin with a bowling ball strapped to my belly, I found myself alone in ways I hadn’t expected. And the worst part? My husband had the audacity to mansplain my own pregnancy to me.
We’ve been married four years. Doug’s 33, works in tech. I’m 30 and work in HR. Before the baby, we split chores, tag-teamed dinners, celebrated promotions with cheap champagne on the couch. It was solid. Or so I thought.
Then pregnancy entered the chat—and Doug transformed.
One night, while my lower back screamed and my ankles looked like overinflated balloons, I made meatballs and roasted potatoes for dinner. I was beyond exhausted. I mean barely-functioning, blurry-eyed, “Is this real life?” tired.
So I finally brought it up.
“Babe,” I said carefully, “I’ve been thinking of starting maternity leave early. The doctor said—”
Doug interrupted. Interrupted!
“You’re being dramatic,” he scoffed, not even pausing to cut his spaghetti. “My mom worked up until the day she gave birth to me.”
I blinked.
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