By the time I left the office that night, eight months pregnant, my body felt borrowed—swollen feet, aching back, ribs pressed from the inside. Pregnancy didn’t feel miraculous; it felt heavy, like carrying a truth I couldn’t put down.
I kept working partly because I had to, and partly because it was easier than watching my marriage quietly empty out. Around my sixth month, my husband, Travis, decided the pregnancy was my responsibility. He stopped coming to appointments, stopped helping, and started going to the gym twice a day. “Someone in this family needs to stay in shape,” he said.
That rainy night, halfway home, my tire blew. Alone, scared, and soaked, I called Travis. He told me to YouTube it. Said it wasn’t his problem. I was eight months pregnant and stranded, and he chose the gym.
So I called his mother.
Marjorie came immediately—blanket, calm voice, no judgment. She stayed with me, had the car towed, and walked me into my house when I admitted I didn’t want to face my husband alone. That night, she stayed. The next morning, she told her son exactly what kind of man he was being.
I packed a bag and went with her. For the first time in months, I rested.
She helped me plan a small baby shower—something Travis had dismissed. When he showed up and tried to perform remorse, Marjorie told the truth instead: how he’d left his pregnant wife alone in the rain. The room applauded. He left.
That night, safe and full, I understood it had never been about a flat tire.
I don’t know what happens next. But I know this: I stopped waiting to be rescued.
I rescued myself—and I brought backup.