I thought I was dreaming at first. I blinked at him, bleary-eyed, belly heavy, my body aching from carrying our child.
But he stood there—tipsy, giggling, like this was all so normal.
“Hey babe,” he said, rubbing my arm. “Sorry to wake you but… the guys are starving. We ran out of chips. Can you whip something up? Just real quick? You make the best grilled cheese.”
I stared at him.
“You want me—your 8-months pregnant wife—who can barely roll over in bed, to get up at 2 in the damn morning and cook for your drunk friends?”
He actually laughed. “C’mon, it’s not like you’re doing anything else. You were just sleeping.”
I sat up, heart pounding, disbelief coursing through me like ice. “Did you seriously just say that?”
He shrugged, still half-laughing. “Don’t be dramatic. We’re just hungry. You used to be fun before the baby stuff.”
Something broke in me then. Something quiet, but irreversible.
This wasn’t about grilled cheese. This was about entitlement, about disrespect, about him seeing me as less the moment I wasn’t useful for his needs.
I got out of bed—not to cook, but to go sit alone in the bathroom with the door locked, shaking.
And in the morning, while he and his buddies snored like toddlers in the living room, I packed a small bag, called my sister, and made two phone calls:
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One to a lawyer.
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One to my OB.
Because I wasn’t going to bring a child into a house where the mother was treated like an afterthought.
He wanted fun before the baby came.
Well, now he gets freedom.
And I get peace.