I thought I was building a life with the father of my baby—until a trip to the grocery store exposed just how wrong I was. At 31 and hopeful, I felt Jack and I were heading somewhere real after two years of dating. We spent Sunday mornings talking about baby names and the life we’d build. I thought we were in love; we used to hold hands at the store. He’d say, “Can’t wait to have a little one who looks just like you,” and I believed him.
When I saw that positive test, I was over the moon. I blurted it out over dinner. Jack looked stunned, then hugged me tightly, saying, “I’m ready to be a dad.” For a while, it felt like everything I’d wanted was happening. But trust cracks quietly.
His declaration changed fast. Within weeks, Jack became someone I didn’t recognize. There were no big shouting matches, just mean, snide comments and eye rolls. He criticized how I folded towels, how long I spent in the shower, and even the way I breathed. “You breathe so heavy now, it’s like you’re trying to steal all the oxygen,” he’d say with a grin. It wasn’t funny.
I convinced myself he was just stressed. He was a junior executive at a logistics firm, and money became his obsession. Every grocery run was an interrogation. “Why the name-brand soap? Are we royalty?” I started buying off-brand everything just to keep the peace. He stopped touching my belly. Every meal I made was “too salty” or “too bland.” If I was tired, he’d mutter, “You’re not the first woman to ever be pregnant.” I stayed because I wanted my baby to have a father, hoping the sweet man I fell in love with would come back.
Then came the rainy Thursday that changed everything. I was seven months along and exhausted. Jack wanted to go to the store for milk. “Don’t make this a marathon,” he snapped. I bit my tongue. In the bakery section, I saw whole-grain buns on sale for $3.29. As soon as I put them in the cart, Jack scoffed. “You just have to go for the most expensive thing every time. Like I’m made of money.”
“They’re three dollars,” I said softly.
“Anything for the pregnant princess,” he sneered, raising his voice so others could hear. “Probably got pregnant on purpose. A baby means you’re set for life, huh?!”
My face burned. People were staring. I tried to put the buns back, but my hands were trembling. They slipped, the plastic tore, and the rolls scattered on the tile. Jack actually laughed. “Wow. You can’t even hold bread. How are you gonna hold a baby?”
I was on the verge of tears when a man in a sharp navy suit stepped forward. “That’s enough, Jack,” he said.
Jack froze. “Mr. Sterling? I… I didn’t see you there.”
“I can see that,” the man replied. This was Cole Sterling, the CEO of Jack’s firm. Jack began to stammer, “I was joking, sir. It’s not like that.”
Cole raised an eyebrow. “Not like what? Publicly shaming the mother of your child because she picked the wrong bread? If this is how you treat your partner, it explains why your client interactions have been so problematic.”
Jack’s lips moved, but no words came. He gave a nervous laugh, mentioning “pregnancy emotions,” but Cole wasn’t buying it. “I’ve seen better professionalism from interns,” Cole added, shutting him up completely. Then he turned to me, his expression softening. “Are you alright?”
I blinked, stunned. “Y-yeah. Thank you.”
The tension Jack had built in me started to loosen. Humiliated, Jack mumbled something, abandoned the cart, and stormed off to the parking lot. Cole offered to walk me to the checkout. When I fumbled with my card, he stepped in and paid. “Call it a small investment in a better future,” he said.
As we walked out, Cole handed me the bags and said, “You don’t deserve that.” Those simple words hit like a hammer.
In the car, Jack exploded. “You humiliated me! You ruined my reputation! I’m never getting that promotion!”
I didn’t say anything. I stared straight ahead. When we got home, I didn’t wait. “You can pack your things and go,” I told him. “I won’t raise my child in a house filled with cruelty.”
He looked dumbfounded. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Jack cursed and left. I locked the door and leaned against it, my breath catching. A few weeks later, I heard he was “reassigned” to a much lower position. As for me, I’m focused on my baby. I’m not a “pregnant princess” in a tower; I’m a woman who finally knows her worth. And it’s worth a lot more than three-dollar buns.
