I’m Penny, 25 weeks pregnant, finally carrying our miracle baby after two long years. I thought everything was falling into place.
But the pregnancy has been brutal—migraines like freight trains, light stabbing my eyes, sound slicing my head.
Last Tuesday my mother-in-law Martha called, feigning concern: worried about the noisy Fourth of July parade. Steve supported her suggestion that I rest, though I was disappointed—it’s our first holiday as a married couple.
Friday morning he left for the parade. Alone, I settled in with tea and a book. Then the kitchen faucet exploded, soaking the whole room. Panicked, I FaceTimed Steve—no answer. On the fourth call, he finally picked up, distracted: “Call a plumber,” he said, then hung up.
But the screen flickered back—and there he was, not at a parade, but in his aunt’s backyard at some family cookout… with his ex, Hazel. Martha orchestrated the reunion; Steve greeted her as family. I watched it happen, heart freezing.
I drove over. They all fell silent when I arrived. Steve stuttered. I revealed I’m his wife and carrying his baby. Hazel said she thought he was single. Steve tried to explain—he wanted “closure.” Martha suggested I wasn’t the right fit for their son; asked for a paternity test.
Steve said nothing. I realized he wouldn’t stand up for me. I left and stayed with my friend Lia.
Two days on, Steve calls constantly, apologizes, pleads. But trust is shattered. I’m looking for my own apartment, thinking of names… preparing to raise our child alone.
My baby deserves more—a mother who shows her that love doesn’t lie, family doesn’t betray, and she’s never second choice.
That Fourth of July turned out to be about independence—in a way I never expected.