Eight months pregnant, exhausted, and soaked by cold rain, I discovered my tire was flat halfway home from work. My body ached, the baby kicked restlessly, and all I wanted was help—from my husband.
When I called Travis, he barely listened. He told me to fix it myself, said he was busy at the gym, and reminded me that “women do this all the time.” When I explained I could barely bend, he snapped that staying in shape mattered more. Something in me went quiet. I told him I’d find someone who actually cared, and he hung up.
After struggling in pain and tears, I called the one person I hadn’t wanted to involve—his mother, Marjorie. She came immediately, wrapped me in a blanket, called a tow, and drove me home without judgment.
I didn’t want to face Travis alone, so she walked in with me. The moment he saw her, his face drained of color. Calmly, I told him I’d found help since he couldn’t be bothered.
Marjorie stayed the night. The next morning, she spoke to her son about responsibility and marriage in a way that left no room for excuses. Later that day, I packed a bag and went with her to rest.
Her home was warm, quiet, and prepared for the baby in ways my own hadn’t been. That weekend, she threw me the baby shower I never had. When Travis tried to play the apologetic husband and the truth about the flat tire came out, the room went silent—then applauded. He left early.
I don’t know what will happen to my marriage.
But I do know this: I didn’t wait to be rescued.
I chose myself—and I brought backup.