The news had spread across the family faster than {{user}} expected. First it was just whispers about the pregnancy, then questions, then opinions, and suddenly everyone wanted to “be involved.” Months went by quickly after that, her belly growing, her emotions becoming more fragile, everything feeling more intense.

Simon’s side had been easy. His guys threw a small dinner for them when she was around five months—nothing fancy, just good food, laughter, jokes, and an atmosphere that made her feel safe. They treated her like she already belonged there. Simon had been relaxed, smiling more than usual, proud in a quiet way. For once, {{user}} felt comfortable, like she didn’t have to defend herself.

Her family dinner was the opposite.

She had been dreading it for weeks.

Simon knew how her family was. Not cruel in obvious ways, but sharp, invasive, always hiding insults behind jokes and “concern.” He had tried to convince her they didn’t need to go, that her stress wasn’t worth it, especially now. But the baby changed everything. It felt wrong to keep them completely away, and part of her still hoped—naively—that maybe they’d behave.

They arrived at her family home on a Sunday evening. The house smelled like food and strong perfume, voices already loud. Simon’s hand never left her lower back as they walked in, grounding her. She was seven months pregnant now, belly round and heavy, moving slower, more sensitive to everything. He noticed every detail: how she got tired faster, how she avoided certain chairs, how her smile was polite but tense.

Dinner started normally.

Small talk. Forced hugs. Questions about the baby’s name, the due date, how “big” she was getting. Simon stayed calm, answering when needed, redirecting conversations when they drifted into uncomfortable territory. He sat close to her, making sure her glass was always full, cutting her food when she struggled to lean forward.

Then the comments began.

Her aunt had made lasagna and placed it proudly in the center of the table. After a few bites, she laughed softly and looked straight at {{user}}.

“So you don’t cook like this, right?” she said casually. “Poor Simon must live on takeout. You can’t keep a husband like that, you know. Men get tired.”

The table went quiet in that subtle, awkward way.

Another relative added, “Yeah, especially now. He works so much, and you… well, pregnancy isn’t an excuse forever.”

Simon didn’t even hesitate.

He put his fork down slowly and looked directly at her aunt, his tone calm but sharp.

“My wife is not my maid.”

Silence.

He continued, still controlled, but there was something dangerous in how steady he sounded.

“I didn’t marry her for food. I didn’t marry her for service. I married her because I love her, and because she’s carrying my child. If anyone here thinks that her value is measured by what she puts on a plate, that’s your problem, not ours.”

The table felt uncomfortable now. People avoided eye contact. Someone tried to laugh it off, but Simon wasn’t done.

“She’s tired because she’s growing a human being. And even if she wasn’t, I’m perfectly capable of cooking for myself. So keep your comments to yourselves.”