If someone had told me that pregnancy could feel like both the biggest blessing and the deepest betrayal, I would’ve laughed in their face. But there I was—thirty-five, six months pregnant, waddling around like my own little planet, and wondering if my marriage was even worth saving.
Mark hadn’t worked since 2023. At first, I told myself it was fine. He’d been laid off, said he needed “a little time” to reset. I agreed. I loved him. We were a team, and I wanted to support him. I had a stable job, good maternity benefits—we would get by.
But “a little time” turned into over a year. Twelve months of me carrying both of us financially while watching our savings bleed out. And every time I begged him to try, he said the same thing: “I just need a bit more time to figure things out.”
Then I got pregnant. And pregnancy? It wasn’t all glowing smiles and cute belly photos. It was swollen ankles that felt like overfilled water balloons, aching hips, a constant ache in my back, and cravings that made no sense.
One night, I was spreading peanut butter on toast at midnight. The next, I was dipping strawberries into cream cheese. I even stashed saltines in my desk drawer at work because someone swore they helped morning sickness. Spoiler alert: they didn’t.
Meanwhile, I gave up everything—date nights, my lavender oat milk lattes, even my little treats—because we had a baby coming. But Mark? He refused to let go of his “ritual”: weekly $250 massages with a woman named Tasha, who he swore “just knew his body.”
That was $1,000 a month—gone.
One evening, I sat on the living room floor folding baby clothes from a secondhand sale. My back throbbed, my ankles were so swollen they looked stuffed with tennis balls. I finally said it out loud:
“Mark, I can’t pay for your massages anymore. We need the money for the baby.”
He didn’t even look up from his phone. His thumb kept scrolling.
“I’m used to her, Valerie,” he said casually. “She knows my body. I can’t just switch to some cheap place. It’s not the same.”
I folded a tiny yellow duck onesie with trembling hands.
“We’re barely staying afloat,” I told him. “You haven’t even tried to find a job. I’m budgeting every cent while you’re dropping four figures a month for… relief.”
Mark sighed like I was the exhausting one.
“I’ll find the money myself then, Val,” he said, standing up. “Don’t stress your pretty little head.”
I wanted to believe him. Maybe I needed to. But deep down, I knew.
A week later, I went to Target for baby essentials: diapers, wipes, a crib sheet. Nothing fancy. But I couldn’t resist a pale blue onesie with stitched clouds. It was so small, and in that moment, it hit me—the baby was real, and he’d be here soon.
At the register, the cashier smiled. “This onesie is beautiful, ma’am.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It makes me want to redo the whole nursery in clouds.”
She laughed, then handed me the card machine. I inserted my card.
Declined.
I tried again. Declined.
The line behind me shifted impatiently. One woman muttered, “Come on. We don’t have all day.”
My face burned. “I’ll just… I’ll come back,” I whispered, leaving everything behind.
In the car, my hands shook as I checked my bank app. There it was: $1,000 gone. I didn’t need to ask where. I knew.
When I got home, Mark was in the kitchen, eating cereal like a carefree teenager.
“You used my card,” I said.
He smirked. “Yeah. I knew you’d freak out, Val. You’re being so dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” I snapped. “I couldn’t even buy diapers today, Mark. You stole from me.”
He rolled his eyes. “Stop playing the victim. I’m stressed too, Valerie. You think being about to be a dad isn’t hard? I have needs. You treat me like I’m not even human.”
The words cut. Because if anyone knew stress, it was me—carrying this baby, working, fighting exhaustion, and now this betrayal.
“My needs are vitamins and a safe place for our baby to sleep,” I said. “Yours are scented oils and hot stones?”
He shrugged. “I’m not paying you back. We’re married. Your money is my money. That’s how this works.”
And just like that, I realized: maybe I wasn’t fighting for a marriage anymore. Maybe I was clinging to a memory of one.
That night, the phone rang. It was Linda, my mother-in-law.
“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice sharp. “Is it true? He used your card for massages?”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“He called me, looking for pity. But all he did was confess. Don’t worry, Val. I’ll handle it.”
I believed her. Linda didn’t make empty promises.
Three days later, Mark stumbled home covered in dust and sweat, dropping a tool belt onto the floor.
“My mom sent me to work on some construction site,” he groaned. “It was brutal. I’m dying.”
“You’ve been home for over a year, Mark,” I said flatly. “Three days of work won’t kill you.”
He scowled. “I better get paid what they promised. I need a massage.”
I didn’t even answer.
That evening, Linda came over carrying an envelope and a chocolate cake. She handed both to me.
“Here you go, honey. The envelope is for the baby. The cake is for us.”
Mark bolted upright. “Mom! That’s my paycheck!”
“No, son,” she said firmly. “That’s repayment. You stole from your wife. This evens it out.”
His jaw dropped. “I worked so hard for that!”
“And Valerie has worked every single day to keep you afloat while carrying your child,” Linda shot back. “This is accountability.”
Mark stormed off, slamming the door. I opened the envelope: exactly $1,000. I tucked it in the nursery drawer beside a tiny lamb-shaped hat.
“Linda?” I asked. “Want some tea and cake?”
She smiled. “Oh, honey. You know me too well.”
For the first time in months, I didn’t feel alone.
But even then, Mark never apologized. He sulked, blamed me for “telling his mom,” and tossed gas station flowers at me a week later, sticker still on them.
“They were on sale,” he said. “But I figured I owed you.”
I forced a smile, but inside, I felt nothing.
“I got a landscaping job. Only two days a week. But it’s something,” he said.
“It is,” I replied softly.
But in my heart, I knew: it wasn’t about jobs or flowers. It was about trust, and respect—and those were gone.
I started moving money into a separate account. Quietly, carefully. Not a dramatic escape, just a small act of freedom.
Because love without trust isn’t love. It’s endurance. And endurance breaks people.
A few days later, I went back to Target. I bought the cloud onesie. My card went through this time.
It’s framed now, hanging above the crib. A reminder. That my baby comes first. That I come first.
Because sometimes the strongest love isn’t the one that keeps holding on.
It’s the one that finally learns how to let go.