“You’ll be fine going to the hospital alone, right? If you keep making a fuss, I swear I’ll send you straight to hell.”
Those words would come later, like a crack across glass at the worst possible moment. But they were the sentence that kept echoing in my head when everything finally broke.
My name is Lisa, and I’m nine months pregnant.
It’s my first time giving birth, so even though I’m filled with anxiety, I also feel genuinely blessed about welcoming a new member into our family.
We live in a quiet suburb just outside Denver, Colorado, the kind with wide streets, small lawns, and American flags hanging from porches. My husband, David, is a white-collar worker at a mid-sized company downtown.
He has weekends off, but he doesn’t offer much support around the house or help with shopping. Most weekends he just drives fifteen minutes over to his parents’ single-story house on the next cul-de-sac and spends the day there without any real reason, just sitting in their kitchen, watching TV with them, acting like he’s still the boy who never left home.
Since becoming pregnant, I’ve been careful about lifting heavy objects.
When I buy big bags of rice or packs of bottled water at the supermarket, kind friends and neighbors often help me.
My daily routine is simple: I wake up early, make coffee and breakfast for David, and see him off in his neatly pressed shirt and tie. Afterward, I clean the apartment, do laundry, and head out in my comfy sneakers for any necessary shopping at the local grocery store or Target. When I return home, I start prepping for dinner.
Only after finishing these tasks can I finally sit down on the couch by the window and have a bit of time to relax.
Since taking maternity leave from my office job, I’ve picked up a new hobby: blogging.
Every day I write a small diary entry, accompanied by photos I take on my phone—simple meals I’ve cooked, the wide Colorado sky, the flowers blooming in the little garden outside our townhouse, sunlight falling across the street, neighbors walking their dogs. Friends and acquaintances from all over the States leave comments, and those gentle interactions have become small daily joys for me.
One evening, as I was preparing dinner—homemade hamburgers, a little salad, iced tea—the front door opened.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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