The day my son was born should have been the happiest of my life. Instead, it marked the unraveling of my entire world. When my husband, Ethan, finally showed up at the hospital, his words left me questioning everything.
Ethan and I had been married for 21 years, most of which we spent battling infertility. It was an exhausting journey filled with hope, despair, and countless tears. In the beginning, Ethan was supportive, holding my hand during appointments and offering words of encouragement. But as the years dragged on, something changed.
He became distant. Late nights at work became routine, and I often overheard him whispering on phone calls, hastily hanging up when I entered the room.
At first, I dismissed my unease, attributing it to the strain infertility put on a marriage. I was too consumed by my desire for a child to dwell on my suspicions.
By the time I turned 40, I was on the verge of giving up. But something inside me—determination, desperation, or perhaps both—pushed me to try one last time. When I told Ethan, he barely reacted, mumbling, “Whatever makes you happy.” His indifference stung, but I pressed on.
And then, against all odds, I got pregnant.
When I showed him the positive test, he forced a smile and said, “That’s great,” but his tone was distant. I told myself he was just processing the surprise.
Nine months later, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. But Ethan refused to be in the delivery room, claiming he’d “just pass out and cause a scene.” So, I endured the ordeal alone.
When he finally arrived two hours later, his first words cut me like a knife.
