Eight months pregnant, barefoot, and humiliated, I was thrown out by the man who once vowed to protect me. The next morning, I stepped off a private jet and made sure he’d regret every word.
I used to think pregnancy would be the most magical time in a woman’s life.
The glow, the cravings, the little kicks under your ribs.
I didn’t expect it to feel like carrying a bowling ball while your heart breaks slowly every single day.
My husband, Travis, hadn’t touched me in months. Not with love. Not even with kindness.
He’d stopped looking at me like I mattered the moment the test showed two pink lines.
And yet, there I was.
Cooking dinner. Folding his socks. Pretending like everything was fine.
“Ellie!” Travis’s voice cut through the apartment.
“This house smells like burnt socks. What the hell are you cooking?”
I flinched, holding a full laundry basket while pasta water boiled over behind me.
“It’s dinner,” I called, trying to sound normal. “Just pasta—”
“Pasta?” He appeared in the doorway.
“You seriously expect me to eat that crap again? Jesus, Ellie, you’ve really let yourself go.”
“You’ve been lying around growing a belly! Don’t act like you’re out working construction.”
I lowered the basket onto the table and took a breath.
“Yeah, and?” He grabbed a beer from the fridge.
“Not like that’s a full-time job.”
I turned away before he could see the tears welling up.
He walked back into the living room, flopped on the couch, and started scrolling on his phone.
***
The following evening, I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch. My body was so sore I didn’t even realize I’d dozed off.
What woke me was the sound of the front door slamming.
“I come home and this is what I get?” Travis yelled. “No dinner, no clean kitchen, no wife who gives a damn?”
“You’re pathetic, Ellie. I can’t stand you anymore.”
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