I’m 39 weeks pregnant, carrying our second child, and every step feels like fire shooting through my body. I wanted my husband Alan’s birthday dinner to be special, even though I was exhausted. His sister Kelly hosted a lovely evening—family gathered, food on the table, candles lit. For once, I thought maybe we’d have a peaceful night.

But halfway through dinner, Alan leaned over with a grin and said, “Cath, after we eat, why don’t you take Zoey home and put her to bed? I’ll stay here with everyone and keep the party going.” I froze. My fork clattered against the plate. Did he really just ask his nine-months-pregnant wife—who could go into labor at any moment—to drive home alone with our four-year-old so he could drink beer and smoke cigars?

The room went silent. His mother, Grace, set down her fork and demanded he repeat what he’d said. When he did, she gave him the scolding of his life. She reminded him that I’d carried this pregnancy almost entirely alone—doctor’s appointments, sleepless nights, and even a nursery still unfinished—while he excused himself with “work.” For the first time, someone else saw what I’d been feeling all along: I wasn’t just tired. I was abandoned.

I pushed back my chair, reached for Zoey’s hand, and said, “Let’s go home, sweetheart.” Grace walked out with us. Alan just sat there, staring at his plate. That drive home felt different. Something shifted in me. I realized that whether or not Alan was ready to be a partner, I was already doing the hard part on my own. I don’t know yet what this means for our marriage, but I do know this: my children will never doubt that they are loved, even if I have to be the one to prove it.