With my first pregnancy, I had an emergency C-section. The trauma of that experience still haunts me. Now, with an unexpected second pregnancy, my body is weak, and all I can do is remind myself to take care of myself and my unborn child. I’ve had to quit my job and stay at home to take care of my eldest child, cook for my husband, and handle all the household chores. I feel like I’m carrying the weight of everything on my own.
My husband is always “too busy” to help. He often comes up with excuses like “meetings,” “socializing,” or “entertaining clients.” I trusted him, until one night, everything came crashing down like my daughter’s fever.
That rainy day, my eldest child suddenly had a high fever and mild convulsions. I was so scared that I rushed out into the rain, carrying my child and trying to flag down a taxi. My pregnant belly, almost full-term, made it difficult to breathe, but I persevered, hugging my child and comforting her.
At the hospital, the doctor said we were lucky to have made it in time. My child received treatment and her fever subsided, but I was asked to stay for observation. I was soaked, my hair was a mess, and my body was shaking from worry and cold. I sent my husband one last message: “I’m at Hospital X, our child has a high fever. If you’re free, please come and see us.”
He read the message but didn’t reply. I waited, for what felt like hours. Exhaustion took over, and I dozed off. Suddenly, I was jolted awake by noises in the hallway. A nurse was pushing a stretcher, followed by a man carrying a crying child. My heart stopped when I recognized my husband.
He was wearing his familiar blue shirt, looking flustered, and talking to the nurse. Beside him was a young woman in her twenties, with blonde hair, sobbing and calling him by the same name I used: “Honey!”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. My husband, who was “too busy” to come to the hospital, was here with another child, not ours. Not mine. Not ours.
I hugged my child tighter, feeling a chill in my heart. My husband walked past me, our eyes meeting for a brief moment before he looked away. He didn’t stop, didn’t offer any explanation, and didn’t ask if I was okay. I didn’t cry, but I felt a deep coldness, not from the rain, but from the realization of his betrayal.
Hours later, my husband appeared in the hallway. He apologized, but I remained silent. He had no more words, but his eyes pleaded for forgiveness. I stood up, cradling my child, and looked directly into the eyes of the man who had once promised to love and protect me:
“I’m going to my mother’s place tomorrow. I’ll give birth there. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
My husband reached for my hand, but I pulled away. At my mother’s house, I collapsed at the door. She held me and simply said, “Just focus on giving birth. We’ll deal with the rest later.”
I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Seeing my son gave me strength. My husband came to visit, but I didn’t let him in. Not out of hatred, but because I hadn’t forgiven him yet, and I couldn’t forget the image of him rushing past his pregnant wife and sick child at the hospital with another woman’s child.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I know one thing: from that moment on, I stopped being the old me, the woman who put all her trust in a man, neglecting herself in the process.
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