I’m currently 39 weeks pregnant. Due any day now. My belly feels like it could pop if I so much as sneeze too hard. We already have a daughter. She’s 4.
Last week was my husband Alan’s birthday. His sister, Kelly, offered to host a little birthday dinner at her apartment. Just family: his parents, Kelly’s partner, me, Alan, and our daughter. I thought it sounded nice. I’ve been trying to be supportive and present for him, even though I’m basically waddling everywhere and running on two hours of sleep.
When we arrived, everything seemed fine. There was food, cake, music playing softly in the background. We all sat down to eat.
Then, halfway through dinner, Alan leaned over to me — in front of everyone — and said:
“Hey… after dinner, you should head home with our daughter and put her to bed. I’ll stay here and keep celebrating. THIS IS MY LAST CHANCE TO REALLY LET LOOSE BEFORE THE BABY COMES. Drink, smoke, stay up late, you know?”
I froze.
I thought he was joking. Who, in their right mind, tells their 39-weeks-pregnant wife to just… leave so they can party without her? But no. He was dead serious. He actually saw this as his “last chance to be free” before the baby arrived.
I started to say something, but before I could, his mom — my MIL — put her fork down. Slowly. She stood up, locked eyes with her son, and in the calmest but most cutting voice I’ve ever heard, she said:
“Alan, sweetheart, could you repeat what you just said? ⬇️