asked my husband to help me with preparations for our future baby, but he ignored me and went to his mom’s. After a while, she called me and said, “I won,” in a snarky voice. And I replied, “Congratulations—hope he fills your crib instead of ours.”

didn’t plan to be this bitter. I wasn’t raised to talk like that. But when you’re seven months pregnant, swollen like a summer peach, and your husband is off at his mother’s house instead of helping set up a crib, your fuse runs a little short.
Tomas wasn’t always like this. When we met, he had this warm laugh that could melt tension out of a room. He used to brush the hair out of my face and say, “Whatever comes, we’re a team.” Somewhere between the engagement ring and my growing belly, that team started feeling more like a one-woman operation.

His mother, Celeste, never warmed to me. She had a tight little smile that never reached her eyes. The kind of woman who’d hug you with one arm and rearrange your kitchen “for your own good.” She once told Tomas in front of me, “Don’t let her get too used to bossing you around, or you’ll never get your manhood back.”
I was standing right there.
We tried to set boundaries, especially after we got pregnant. I told Tomas I needed his energy here, with me, building a space for our baby. He nodded, half-listening, scrolling through his phone. Two days later, he disappeared to his mother’s under the excuse of “helping her fix the water heater.”