The week I was about to become a mom, my husband started acting differently. He kept smiling at his phone, making secret plans, and telling me everything was “handled.” I didn’t realize until I went into labor that I wasn’t the only one facing something life-changing.
My name is Sloane. I’m 31, and my husband Beckett is 33. We’d been married four years, had a house, a shared bank account, and a baby boy on the way we had already named Rowan.
The week before my due date, Beckett got strange. He was always on his phone, smiling, and hiding the screen when I walked by.
When I asked what was going on, he said, “You just focus on having the baby. It’s handled.” But I felt uneasy.
On Friday morning, I woke up with sharp pains. “I think this is it,” I told him.
Instead of helping, Beckett walked in already dressed up, cologne on, and carrying his travel bag. My heart sank.
“I have to leave,” he said. “It’s a guys’ trip we planned for months.”
I stared at him. “I’m in labor.”
He shrugged. “My mom can take you. I’ll be a couple of hours away. If something serious happens, I’ll come back.”
Another contraction hit, and I cried out. He kissed my forehead like I was just running an errand, then left.
I called my best friend, Maris. She rushed over, grabbed the hospital bag, and drove me to the hospital.
At the hospital, things moved quickly. The baby’s heart rate dipped, and the doctors prepared for possible surgery. I held Maris’s hand.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“At a bar,” I whispered.
Maris stayed by my side. After pushing through the pain, Rowan was born, crying loudly. I held him close and said, “Hi, Rowan. It’s me.”
Later, Beckett sent me a photo of himself at a bar with friends. My body went numb. Maris, who works in corporate compliance, quietly began documenting everything—my hospital bracelet, the contraction log, the texts.
She explained, “This isn’t about revenge. It’s about keeping a record.”
When Beckett’s mom arrived, she defended him. “Men get stressed too. You’re being unforgiving.”
Maris calmly replied, “He left during a medical emergency. That’s not just bad timing—it’s abandonment.”
Eventually, Beckett’s job found out. Not only about the hospital situation, but also about fake work trips he had claimed. He was fired.
He came home angry. “You ruined my life,” he said.
I held Rowan and answered, “I didn’t lie. I didn’t cheat. I didn’t walk out while you were in labor. I just stopped covering for you.”
That night, I wrote in Rowan’s baby book: Who was there when you were born? I wrote: Me. Maris. The nurses. Not your father.
I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt clear. The consequences weren’t revenge. They were simply the truth, finally landing where they belonged.
