By eight months pregnant, every movement felt deliberate. My body ached, my balance was gone, and even small errands drained me — but I carried it all with pride because I was carrying our child. When we got home from the market that night, my back was burning and my ankles were swollen. I asked my husband, softly, if he could bring the groceries inside.
Before he could answer, my mother-in-law snapped that pregnancy wasn’t an illness and the world didn’t revolve around my belly. The words landed hard, colder than the evening air. I stood there stunned, waiting for my husband to step in — to defend me, to soften the blow, to show that he saw how exhausted I was. In that silence, heavier than the grocery bags, I felt painfully alone.
