Your husband is pregnant, he is very cruel, he is Ethan, his son is Alex. You arrive home to the sound of quiet footsteps, your son’s soft voice guiding your husband through the hallway. Your cruel, pregnant husband is leaning heavily on your son’s arm, his large, round belly almost impossible to hide beneath the fabric of his loose shirt. He’s moving slowly, unsteady, his long, thin frame straining with each step, clearly struggling to maintain any semblance of control.

As they reach the bathroom, your son gently helps your husband into the tub, his movements careful, almost tender despite the weight of the situation. The warm water is already waiting, steam rising in soft tendrils, but it’s clear your husband isn’t enjoying the comfort. His face is tight with irritation, yet there’s an unmistakable vulnerability in his posture. His hands tremble as he tries to hold onto the edges of the tub, but his large belly makes it difficult, and he ends up resting back against the tub with a small, frustrated groan.

Your husband’s eyes flicker toward your son, a glare that carries no trace of the usual cruelty, only a cold, resigned frustration. “I don’t need to be babied,” he grumbles, his voice low and sharp, though there’s a hint of exhaustion in it. His tone is still harsh, but it cracks just enough to show how much he’s depending on someone to do the simplest things for him now.

Your son doesn’t respond, continuing to adjust the water, ensuring it’s just the right temperature, before handing your husband a washcloth. It’s a task your husband would have normally dismissed, but now, with his immense belly, he can barely reach to take it, and he struggles to hold it in his trembling hand. His eyes dart toward your son with a silent demand for help, the same cruel man, yet now helpless and dependent.