But this was a conversation we had had many times before.
No matter how much I begged or got upset, my husband had no plans to get a job.
The man I once believed would help support our home now barely cooked and relied on takeout.
He also didn’t keep the house clean. When I complained about it, he got angry.
“You’re the one making the money, so what’s the problem?” he yelled. “I’m your husband, and I do housework. As a stay-at-home husband, I deserve at least that much.”
Then he stormed out, saying he was going to his parents’ house.
I felt hurt and angry.
Families are supposed to support each other, but now I was pregnant and starting to doubt if he really cared about our future.
I had worked so hard to build this life and career. Just because we were married didn’t mean he could spend large amounts of money without even asking me.
I kept taking deep breaths to stop myself from crying or yelling.
Later that night, he suddenly came back with his parents.
The door slammed open, and I jumped up, startled.
As soon as they entered, his parents started shouting at me.
“This is all your fault,” they said. “Paul has been so stressed doing the housework because you force it on him.”
His mother added, “As a woman, you should be cooking, cleaning, and doing the laundry. Don’t use your job as an excuse to avoid your duties.”
Their words made my blood boil.
I was pregnant and not feeling well, and now I was being blamed for everything.
I had already made up my mind to get a divorce. And their yelling pushed me over the edge.
I shouted back, my voice full of anger.
“Enough. Don’t act like you know everything when you clearly don’t. You’ll regret talking to me this way.”
They looked shocked by how cold and serious I sounded.
But I realized there was no point arguing anymore.
My husband had clearly lied to them about the situation. And even when I tried to explain that he wasn’t working or helping, they didn’t believe me.
So, I stayed quiet.
Still, deep down, I knew they would regret this one day.
Then, suddenly, my mother-in-law pulled some papers out of her bag and slammed them on the dining table.
“If you won’t change your behavior, we’re demanding a divorce. Sign this and be done with it,” she said.
I stared at the papers in shock.
I never thought they’d be the ones to bring it up, especially like this.
In fact, I had been planning to ask for a divorce myself.
Thinking this could turn into a legal fight, I picked up the pen.
My hands were shaking so much I could barely hold it.
But I signed the papers, swallowing my pain and anger.
I forced myself to sign the papers and said, “There, it’s done.”
With that, my husband and his parents left.
Then I realized I forgot to ask for my credit card back.
A deep sadness hit me.
Right after that, a sharp pain shot through my stomach. It was worse than anything I’d ever felt.
I collapsed to the floor. My breathing became fast, and sweat started pouring down my face and body.
My vision turned blurry, and the pain was so strong I couldn’t think clearly.
I tried to say, “What’s happening?”
But the words barely came out.
With every breath, the pain got worse. I couldn’t control my body.
I dragged myself across the floor, trying to reach my phone.
My fingers were shaking as I pulled myself forward little by little, using all the strength I had left.
The burning pain made me feel like I was about to pass out.
I finally managed to call emergency services.
In a weak, trembling voice, I said, “Help! I’m in a lot of pain. I’m pregnant.”
I gave them my address and ended the call.
The pain didn’t stop. My vision got darker, and I collapsed again, lying there on the floor, waiting for help.
Please protect my baby, I whispered in my mind, praying hard.
Even in that pain, I kept telling myself to stay strong for my child.
I was rushed to the hospital.
The doctors told me I was at risk of early labor. They said it was because of too much stress and working too hard.
I was admitted to the hospital right away.
The fear for my baby was so overwhelming that I must have passed out after arriving.
I was in a coma for three days.
When I finally woke up, I was in a quiet hospital room.
The pain had gone down, and my body felt a little better.
I slowly became aware of my surroundings. The room was calm, and soft sunlight came through the window.
I gently touched my belly and felt that my baby was still there.
I let out a deep breath, thankful for that moment of peace.
Slowly, the memories came back, the awful pain, the ambulance ride, and how scared I was of blacking out.
I was grateful to be alive and safe.
Then I thought about my husband. I needed to contact him.
I picked up my phone and called him.
He didn’t answer.
I remembered giving his number to the ambulance staff, but I hadn’t heard from him since.
I called again.
Still no reply.
I tried several more times.
Finally, on the fifth try, he answered, but his voice sounded odd and the signal wasn’t clear.