It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a command. Just a simple request from a woman nearing the end of pregnancy, hoping for a moment of support.
Before he could answer, my mother-in-law cut in.
Her voice was sharp, impatient, slicing through the air:
“The world does not revolve around your belly. Pregnancy is not an illness.”
I froze. The bags grew heavier in my hands. I waited for my husband to speak, to defend me, to acknowledge the cruelty of her words.
He didn’t. He nodded, as if agreeing.
So I carried the bags myself. Each step hurt—not just my muscles, but something deeper. The pain of dismissal. The sting of silence.
A Long Night
That night, sleep refused me. I lay awake, listening to my husband’s steady breathing, the baby’s gentle movements reminding me I was not truly alone.
