Chapter 2: The Breaking Point

Gavin was always glued to international news. I never understood why—never really cared—until two days ago, when the story broke.

A female American war correspondent had been captured by terrorists during an interview abroad. The news clip only showed her for a second, but I recognized her right away: Jenna Young, the big-shot anchor from the international news channel.

Heavily pregnant, I was sprawled out on the couch, eating cantaloupe from a Tupperware, feeling a little bad for the reporter—she always seemed so fearless on TV. The AC hummed in the background, mixing with the baby monitor’s soft static.

Gavin panicked as soon as Jenna’s name flashed across the screen. He knocked the fruit plate off the coffee table, melon cubes rolling everywhere. He lurched up so fast he banged his knee on the corner, cursing under his breath. The jolt made my belly cramp, sharp and deep, but Gavin didn’t even glance my way.

He stumbled into the kitchen for water, but hit the hot water lever and scalded his hand. The glass crashed into the sink, shattering. He ran cold water over his hand, muttering, then vanished into our bedroom, slamming the door so hard a picture frame rattled on the hallway wall.

An hour later, Gavin emerged—face pale, jaw clenched, eyes glassy.

"I... I have to go on a last-minute business trip." His voice cracked a little, like he was trying hard to sound steady.

My fingers dug into the cantaloupe, knuckles white, but my voice stayed calm. Years in tech had taught me how to keep it together when everything else was falling apart.

"Gavin, my due date is just days away. This really isn’t a good time for you to go on a business trip. What if I go into labor?"

"You know my mom died giving birth to my brother—both mother and child were lost. I’m honestly terrified of childbirth."

"And weren’t you the one who was most excited about our daughter’s birth? Don’t you want her first sight in this world to be her father?"

Gavin’s face drained of color. He stared at the floor, lips pressed together, then looked back up and said, "I have to do this, Nat. I swear I’ll be back before the baby comes."

I smiled then—tight, controlled.

Even as another contraction hit and warm liquid streamed down my legs, I held onto my composure, my voice ice-cold.

"I agree, but Gavin, let me be clear: whatever happens because of this trip, you’ll have to face the consequences. I won’t be responsible."

Maybe my tone cut too deep, because his hands shook as he reached for his phone.

He made a solemn promise, looking me straight in the eye: "Don’t worry, I’ll definitely come back safely."

Then he rushed back to the bedroom, tossing shirts and socks into his old duffel, grabbed his sneakers from the closet, and jammed his feet in without even tying the laces.

He was about to dart out when I called after him, my voice stopping him in the foyer.

"Gavin, wait."

He turned, impatience all over his face, already halfway out the door.

"Didn’t you already agree to let me go? Why are you stopping me now?"

My hand clenched around the armrest as another wave of pain hit. I fought to keep my voice steady.

"You forgot your passport."

Dragging my aching body across the hardwood floor, water still trickling down my legs, I went into the bedroom and rummaged through the top dresser drawer.

I pulled out his passport and handed it to him, along with a bank card—a simple blue debit card that held every dollar Gavin had transferred into my account over our seven years of marriage. All the paychecks, birthday gifts, holiday bonuses. I pressed the blue debit card into his hand—the one we’d used for groceries and date nights, every pizza delivery and Target run.

Gavin’s hands shook as he took them. His eyes filled with something—regret, maybe, or guilt. For a moment, I thought he might drop everything and stay.

But instead, he shoved the passport and card into his bag, mumbled, "Don’t worry, I’ll definitely be back before you give birth," and slipped out the door. The slam echoed in the hallway, making our wedding photo vibrate on the wall.

I tried to stand, but my legs shook. The baby monitor blinked green, steady as my heartbeat went wild.

I stood in the quiet, the house suddenly so big and empty, and called 911 with hands that barely trembled. Then I dialed the staff at the postpartum care center, my voice calm, matter-of-fact.

A man who couldn’t even notice that my water had broken had the nerve to promise he’d be back before I gave birth. The irony burned, bitter in my throat.

How ridiculous.