My husband was tall, handsome, successful. My son was adorable. I didn't have to work. We lived in a sprawling apartment with a scenic view in the heart of the city.
"You're so lucky," people would say, envy dripping from their voices. "You married such a good man."
But they didn't know.
Our marriage was a stagnant pool, rotting from the inside.
In the beginning, there was passion. We were inseparable. But slowly, the romance evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of mundane chores. Poetry and dreams were buried under piles of laundry and grocery lists.
My pregnancy was brutal. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep.
At first, he would hold me, his voice soft. "You're working so hard, honey."
But as the weeks turned into months, his patience frayed. My suffering became an inconvenience.
"All women go through this," he said one evening, not looking up from his phone. "Just endure it."
I asked for a glass of water.
He didn't even lift his eyes.
"Can't you see I'm busy? Why are you so delicate? Other women get pregnant without making such a fuss."
A chill settled into my bones.
*Men mature late,* I told myself. *Once the baby is here, he'll change.*
Then came the delivery.