I’m 31. My husband, Beckett, is 33. We’d been married four years. We had a mortgage, a joint checking account, and a baby boy on the way — Rowan.
I believed that meant we were a team.
The week before my due date, Beckett started acting… off.
Always smiling at his phone. Turning the screen away when I walked in. Saying things like, “It’s handled.”
“What’s handled?” I asked one night while folding tiny onesies.
“Stuff,” he shrugged. “You just focus on popping this kid out.”
I laughed, but something in my stomach tightened.
The Morning Everything Broke
Friday morning, a pain ripped through me so hard I had to grab the dresser.
This wasn’t Braxton Hicks.
“Beck,” I called. “I think this is it.”
He walked in already dressed — hair styled, cologne on, watch fastened.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Could be false labor.”
Another contraction hit. I doubled over.
“Pretty sure,” I gasped.
He looked at his watch.
Then he walked away.
I assumed he was grabbing the hospital bag.
He came back with his navy duffel. The one he uses for trips.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I have to leave.”
“Leave where?”
“Guys’ trip. We’ve had it planned for months.”
I stared at him. “I’m in labor.”
“My mom can take you,” he said. “The deposit’s non-refundable. The guys are already on the road.”
“You planned to leave when I was due?”
“You’re not even admitted yet. These things take forever. I’ll only be a few hours away.”
“Me giving birth is serious,” I said.
“Babe, you’re being dramatic. Stress is bad for the baby.”
Another contraction crushed me. I cried out.
He flinched, checked his watch again.
“I really have to go. Mom will be here soon. You’re tough.”
Something inside me went cold.
“If you’re going,” I said, “go.”
He kissed my forehead like I was running errands.
Then he left.
The Person Who Showed Up
I called my best friend, Maris.
“I’m in labor,” I panted. “Beckett just left for a guys’ trip.”
Silence.
“Text me your contraction timing,” she said, voice sharp and steady. “I’m coming. Do not drive.”
She arrived in ten minutes, still in work clothes.
“I’ve got you,” she said, grabbing the hospital bag Beckett ignored.
The drive was chaos. I breathed and cursed while she ran yellow lights.
At the hospital, the nurse checked me.
“Six centimeters,” she said. “You’re moving fast.”
Monitors beeped. Voices sharpened.
“Heart rate dipping.”
“Blood pressure low.”
“Prep for possible emergency C-section.”
I gripped Maris’s hand.
“Where is he?” she asked softly.
“On his way to margaritas,” I croaked.
The doctor leaned close. “Baby didn’t like that last contraction, but he’s recovering. Do you have a partner to call?”
“This is my person,” I said, nodding at Maris.
Hours blurred.
Push. Breathe. Fear. Push again.
Then a scream filled the room.
“He’s here.”
They placed Rowan on my chest — warm, furious, perfect.
I sobbed. “Hi, Rowan.”
Maris brushed his tiny hair. “Hey, little man.”
It was the most powerful moment of my life.
And then my phone buzzed.
A photo from Beckett.
Him and his friends at a bar. Neon lights. Cocktails on the table.
Caption: “Made it. Love you.”
My body went numb.
The Record
Maris’s expression changed.
“You remember what I do for work?” she asked.
“Corporate something?” I said, still dazed.
“Corporate compliance. Internal investigations. I document things.”
“I don’t want to ruin his life,” I whispered.
“You’re not,” she said. “You’re recording facts.”
She photographed my hospital bracelet. The whiteboard with my admission time. My contraction app. The timestamped bar photo.
She wrote everything down.
No emotion. Just facts.
The Mother-in-Law
My mother-in-law arrived an hour later.
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” she said, hovering over Rowan. “Beckett’s driving back tonight. He was stressed.”
“He left while I was in labor,” I said.
“He thought he had time. You’re being harsh.”
Maris closed her laptop.
“He abandoned a documented medical emergency for a party,” she said evenly.
My MIL stiffened. “You don’t understand marriage.”
“I understand liability,” Maris replied. “And managerial responsibility.”
Her eyes darted to the laptop. “What did you do?”
“I emailed his HR,” Maris said calmly. “Employee conduct concern — abandonment during spouse’s medical emergency. Screenshots attached.”
My MIL looked at me. “You allowed this?”
“I said yes.”
“You’ll get him fired.”
“If that happens,” Maris said, “it’s because of what he chose.”
My MIL stormed out.
Rowan stirred against my chest.
I stroked his back.
“I’m done pretending this was normal,” I said.
