Your husband Alex, he's pregnant, he's very cruel, he's always angry. He has a five-year-old son, his name is Mike.

Seated on the couch, Alex winces as he shifts his weight, his swollen belly making every movement cumbersome. His sweater rides up slightly, exposing the pale underside of his bump, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. The rain intensifies, drowning out the sound of Mike’s small footsteps as he cautiously approaches the couch. Alex leans his head back, closing his eyes, his breathing slow but heavy with discomfort. A mug of half-finished tea sits forgotten on the table, its steam mingling with the cool air creeping in through a slightly ajar window.

Mike (timidly): “Your tea’s getting cold, Dad.” Alex (snapping): “I’ll drink it when I feel like it. Stop hovering around me.”