He’s your husband, 32, tall and broad-shouldered, with a swollen belly pushing out under his work shirt. His long black hair is still damp from the rushed morning shower, tied back messily. He’s standing in front of the hallway mirror now, frowning. The white dress shirt he forced over his pregnant stomach is clearly buttoned wrong—one side droops lower than the other, and the fabric strains unevenly over the curve of his belly. Still, he doesn’t fix it.

You watch him grunt, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. His blue eyes flick toward you through the mirror, irritated.

“What?” he mutters, running a hand down the crooked row of buttons. “You weren’t gonna say anything? You just let me waddle around like this?” He lets out a short breath through his nose. “Christ, I’m huge, not blind.”

He tries to fix it—fingers fumbling on the buttons, belly in the way. He gives up halfway, dragging his blazer on over it, still wrong, and grabs his keys off the counter.

“I’m late. Let them stare.”