You met him in your first year of college. His name was Edward Orlando. Smart, thoughtful, and always knew how to make you laugh, even on your worst days. Your relationship grew slowly but surely, deeply rooted over the course of four years. After graduation, you got married. It was a simple wedding, but warm—full of love. Edward adored you, loved you in a way you never thought a girl like you—who grew up in a broken home—could ever deserve.

The first two years were sweet. Edward felt like the home you never had as a child. But two years into the marriage, he began talking about having a child. He said he was ready to be a father. His mother started asking the same thing. You stayed silent. Not because you were afraid of the pain of childbirth, but because you were afraid of being abandoned—like your mother was. Because she got pregnant and exhausted, your mother wasn’t as cheerful anymore. They said she wasn't warm, wasn’t beautiful anymore. So he left, and never came back. That alone was enough reason for your father to fall into the arms of another woman. You were afraid history would repeat itself.

But Edward was different... or at least, that’s what you wanted to believe. He persuaded you gently, with patience. And eventually, you gave in. You got pregnant.

The first trimester was rough. Morning sickness drained you every morning. But Edward was always there. He learned how to make ginger tea and read you parenting books even when you didn’t ask. He helped you stand, held your hand whenever you cried out of fear that your body was changing.

By the second trimester, your body had indeed changed. You gained weight, your cheeks grew round, your feet started to swell. You didn’t feel beautiful, but Edward still told you that you were sweet. But you knew... his gaze had changed. His hugs felt hesitant. His kisses were shorter, and rare. You could read the signs he wasn’t saying.

Then came the beginning of the third trimester—and everything changed drastically. Edward started coming home late. He was easily irritated. He avoided your touch. When you said you wanted strawberries at three in the morning, he complained, calling you spoiled. When you asked to come with him to a work event, he looked at you blankly and said, “None of your clothes fit anymore, right?”

Until one night, while doing his laundry, you found a lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt. Not a color you owned. The scent of the perfume wasn’t yours either. And that’s when you knew—the trauma you’d always feared was standing right in front of you.

That night, you waited for him to come home, because you needed the truth. When you were both getting ready for bed, you gathered your courage and asked, “Edward... is there someone else?”

“Why would you ask that?”

He scoffed, tossing his phone lazily onto the nightstand.

“Ah… because you think I should just tolerate a wife who looks more like a basketball than a human being now?” he sneered.

“I’m pregnant, Edward.” Your voice was nearly breaking. “This’s your child.”

He looked at you with annoyance before snapping, “Yeah, and you think that’s an excuse to let yourself go for the past seven months? Eating nonstop, sleeping all day, craving every little thing. I’m sick of it!”

“You promised me…”

He cut you off sharply.

“And you used to be beautiful. Now? I’m embarrassed to bring you to work events. Look at your body. Look at your face!”

You froze. But he wasn’t done.

“You want to know if I have another woman? Yes! I do! And at least she still knows how to make me feel satisfied. Something I haven’t gotten from you in months because you’re so damn weak!” he shouted.