“I’m 39 Weeks Pregnant. What My Husband Said at His Birthday Dinner Made Me Walk Out.”
My name is Catherine, but everyone calls me Cathy. I’m 38 years old and 39 weeks pregnant. That means I’m right at the edge—any day now, this baby could come.
Honestly? I feel like I’m about to explode. My belly is stretched so tight, walking hurts. My legs ache, and sleep is a distant memory. I haven’t had a full night’s rest in what feels like forever.
We already have a daughter—Zoey. She’s four years old, full of energy, pigtails, and questions. This pregnancy, though? It’s been different. Harder. The doctor says it’s because I’m over 35.
“Cathy, you need to take it easy,” Dr. Smith told me just last week. “Rest is crucial now.”
But how do I rest when my husband barely acts like I’m pregnant at all?
Alan—my husband—has come to exactly one ultrasound. One. Out of dozens. While I sat in waiting rooms, hearing heartbeats and getting test results alone, he was always “at work.”
“I have to work, Cath,” he’d say. “Someone has to pay the bills.”
But even on weekends, when he didn’t have to work? He still left me alone with Zoey. My back throbbing, my ankles swollen, trying to do everything myself while he went out “just to get some air.”
I asked him for months to help with the baby’s room. Nothing complicated—move a few boxes, hang up the curtains, build the crib.
“I’ll get to it,” he’d say. Every single time.
But he never did.
The nursery still looks like a storage unit. Boxes everywhere. The crib? Still leaning against the wall. Curtains? Nope. Just blinds from the last owner and a layer of dust.
“When are you going to finish this?” I asked two weeks ago, rubbing my aching back.
“Soon, Cath. God, you’re always nagging.”
Nagging. That word stuck to me like glue. As if asking for help preparing for our baby was annoying.
Then came last Tuesday—Alan’s 39th birthday.
His sister, Kelly, called me that morning.
“Hey! I want to throw Alan a little dinner tonight. Nothing huge, just the family. You, Alan, Zoey, Mom, Dad, and Jake.”
Jake is her boyfriend. A firefighter. Always polite.
“That sounds really nice,” I said. “Thank you, Kelly.”
I was exhausted. But I still wanted Alan to feel celebrated.
So I got dressed in my best maternity dress. The same one that used to make him smile when I was pregnant with Zoey.
He didn’t even look at me. Not even a glance.
We arrived at Kelly’s around 6 p.m. The apartment smelled like roast chicken, candles flickered on the table, and soft jazz played in the background. It was warm, cozy—beautiful.
“Happy birthday, son!” Grace, Alan’s mom, hugged him tight. She’s always been kind. Honestly, more of a mom to me than my own.
Dinner started out nice. Kelly had cooked all of Alan’s favorite dishes. Zoey talked about preschool. Grace asked about my pregnancy. Jake made everyone laugh with fire station stories.
I kept shifting in my seat, trying to hide the pain in my back. But I smiled. I wanted this night to go well—for him.
And then… he said it.
Halfway through dinner, Alan turned to me with this huge, excited grin like he just had a brilliant idea.
“Hey, Cath? After dinner, why don’t you take Zoey home and put her to bed? I’ll stay here with everyone, keep the party going.”
I stared at him, confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, babe! This is probably my last real chance to have fun before the baby comes. I want to have a few beers with Jake, maybe smoke a cigar. Stay up late like we used to.”
My fork slipped from my hand and clanged against the plate.
“You want me to leave? And take Zoey home by myself?”
“Well, yeah.” He actually shrugged. “You’re tired anyway, right? You’re always saying how tired you are. And someone’s gotta put Zoey to bed.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I looked at this man I married—the father of my children—and I barely recognized him.
“Alan. I’m 39 weeks pregnant. I could go into labor tonight.”
“Oh come on, Cath. Don’t be dramatic.”
That’s when Grace stood up, slow and quiet. She set her fork down gently and fixed her son with a stare so cold it made the room feel ten degrees colder.
“Alan,” she said sharply. “Would you mind repeating what you just said to your wife?”
Alan blinked, suddenly unsure.
“I—I just said she could take Zoey home. I’d stay here.”
“Word for word,” Grace said. “Repeat it.”
He looked around, searching for backup. No one said a thing.
“I asked her to take Zoey home so I could celebrate my birthday with you guys.”
Grace stepped behind me and gently rested her hands on my shoulders.
“Your wife—who is nine months pregnant—should drive home alone, put your child to bed, and maybe go into labor while you sit here drinking?”
“It’s just one night—”
“And what if she goes into labor tonight?” she snapped. “You want her to call an Uber to the hospital while you’re smoking cigars?”
The room went completely still. Even Zoey stopped playing with her napkin.
“And another thing,” Grace continued. “She’s been to every appointment alone. Built the nursery alone. She’s begged you for help. And you’ve done nothing. Nothing.”
My eyes filled with tears. Finally. Someone saw me. Really saw me.
“You act like this baby is her project, not yours. Like it’s happening to her, and you’re just watching from the sidelines.”
Alan’s face turned pale.
I stood up slowly. My legs ached. My back burned.
“I’m going home,” I said softly.
Grace squeezed my shoulders. “I’m coming with you, sweetheart. You shouldn’t be alone.”
I turned to Zoey.
“Come on, baby girl. Let’s go home.”
“Is Daddy coming too?”
I looked at Alan. He was staring at his plate, silent.
“No, honey. Daddy wants to stay here. And party.”
Zoey looked like she might cry, but she took my hand.
We didn’t say goodbye.
The ride home was quiet. Zoey asked softly, “Why was everyone so sad?”
“Sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, baby,” I said.
“Will you and Daddy be okay?”
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Grace watching me with gentle eyes.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I whispered. “I honestly don’t know.”
Back at home, Grace helped Zoey into pajamas and read her a story. I curled up on the couch, completely drained.
“Grandma, will you read to me?” Zoey asked, holding her favorite book.
“Of course, little one,” Grace said.
Later, Grace brought me a cup of tea.
“How long has he been like this?” she asked gently.
“Since I got pregnant,” I said. “Maybe even before.”
The baby kicked—hard. I winced, rubbing my ribs.
“That one looked strong,” Grace said.
“They’re getting stronger. Doctor says it could be any day now.”
She nodded. “Are you scared?”
I thought about it. A week ago? Yes. Terrified. But tonight?
“Not of the baby. I’m scared of everything else. Of doing this alone.”
“You won’t be alone, Cathy,” she said firmly. “You and this baby are my priority now. Whatever my son chooses to do—you will never be alone.”
The baby kicked again, like they agreed.
“I keep wondering what I’ll tell this baby about tonight,” I whispered. “About their dad choosing a party instead of us.”
Grace took my hand.
“You’ll tell them they were wanted. Deeply wanted. By their mother. And their grandmother. That’s what matters.”
The house felt different after that. Quiet. But safe. Alan hadn’t come home. Maybe he was still at Kelly’s. Still celebrating.
The baby kicked once more. Strong. Ready.
I placed my hands on my belly and whispered, “You are so loved. You’ll never wonder about that. Not for one second.”
I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I’ll have to make hard decisions. Maybe this family won’t look the way I once dreamed. But I will fight for a better one—for Zoey, for this new little one, and for myself.
And the rest?
We’ll figure it out—together. Once the baby arrives.