He chose his parents and a nonrefundable flight

On weekends, he drove to his parents� house an hour away.

His father, Gerald, wanted to watch football or play golf. His mother, Denise, always had a full meal waiting for her only son.

At first, I told myself it was sweet that he loved his parents.

Then I realized he was not visiting them like a grown man. He was running back to the people who still treated him like a spoiled boy.

Denise had opinions about everything.

She said I worried too much, rested too much, and acted like pregnancy made me fragile. She said women in her generation did not need constant praise for doing what women were designed to do.

Gerald often reminded me that Ethan worked hard and deserved peace.

I wanted to ask when I was supposed to receive peace, but every time I defended myself, Ethan said I was disrespecting his family.

The Friday before everything happened, Ethan came home angry because I had forgotten the smoked almonds, protein bars, and craft beer he wanted to bring to his parents before their golf weekend.

I told him I could order them for delivery, but he said they needed them in the morning.

When I suggested he stop at the store himself, he stared at me like I had insulted him.

�You have been home all day,� he said.

Those words hit hard because �home all day� meant laundry, cleaning, phone calls with insurance, back pain, swollen feet, heartburn, and trying not to panic whenever I felt a contraction.

Still, I drove to Target with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on my belly.

I bought everything he wanted, plus a golf glove he had mentioned weeks earlier, because some foolish part of me still wanted to make him happy.

I remember standing in the checkout line, shifting my weight from one foot to the other while a cashier asked when I was due.

Tomorrow, I almost said.

But I smiled and said, �Very soon.�

In the parking lot, the beer case was too heavy for me to lift. I stood there pretending to rearrange bags until Meera Caldwell, our neighbor, walked over.

She helped me load the car and asked where Ethan was.

I said he was busy with work.

Meera looked at me gently and said, �Maya, busy men can still be decent men.�

That sentence stayed in my head the whole way home.

When I got home, Ethan did not thank me.

He complained that I had bought the wrong almonds. Then he criticized the pasta salad I made for dinner, saying his mother made it better and never let food taste that bland.

I reminded him that I had been on my feet for hours, but he only shook his head like I was making excuses.

He opened the golf glove, tried it on, and still did not say thank you.

Ten minutes later, he took the snacks, beer, and golf glove and left for his parents� house because he wanted �a normal meal.�

I sat alone at the kitchen table, staring at a tiny blue bib beside my plate, wondering why I was still trying to earn love from people who treated my exhaustion like an inconvenience.

The next evening, Ethan came home smiling in a way that made my stomach tighten.

It was the smile he wore when he had already made a decision and wanted me to act like I had been included.

I was on the couch with a heating pad on my back, finishing thank-you cards from the baby shower. I hoped he had finally arranged paternity leave or called the pediatrician like he had promised.

Instead, he said his parents had upgraded their trip.

�Scottsdale,� he said. �Three days at a golf resort. Mom found a package deal, and Dad already booked the tee times.�

I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and tell me it was a joke