At eight months pregnant, I begged my husband to pull over because the pain was so bad I could barely breathe. Instead, Eric dragged me from the car, called me a liar, and drove away with my purse and phone still inside. An hour later, doctors were trying to stop my baby from coming early. That evening he found my father had changed the locks—but the police officer outside my hospital room scared him more…
My name is Claire, and until that morning, I had become very good at explaining my husband’s behavior.
Eric wasn’t cruel.
He was stressed.
Eric didn’t have a temper.
He was under pressure at work.
He wasn’t controlling.
He was protective.
And when he said things that made me feel small, I told myself every marriage went through difficult seasons.
I had been telling myself versions of those sentences for almost three years.
Being pregnant made the excuses harder.
By my eighth month, I was tired all the time. My ankles swelled by late afternoon, sleep came in ninety-minute pieces, and our baby had apparently decided my ribs were a convenient place to practice kicking.
Eric had very little patience for any of it.
If I asked him to stop somewhere so I could use the restroom, he sighed.
If I woke him because I was having leg cramps, he told me to walk them off.
If I worried about something the doctor had said, he accused me of “going down another anxiety rabbit hole.”
Still, that morning seemed normal.
I had a prenatal appointment at 9:00.
Eric offered to drive me because his office was roughly on the way.
He was already irritated when we left.
He had an important meeting at ten, and apparently I had taken too long finding my shoes.
“You knew what time we had to leave,” he said as we pulled out of the driveway.
“I’m sorry.”
