When I woke up, I instinctively reached for Jack, and was shocked when the flat wrinkled sheets greeted me instead of his warm sleeping body. It took all my energy to push back the sheets and climb out of bed to go look for him. I padded down the hall in my now constant pose—one hand on my hips to support myself, one hand on my belly to support my baby. The baby’s kicks were coming more and more frequently; it made my pregnancy become real in ways a little plastic drugstore pregnancy test couldn’t. Jack loved to feel the baby kick. He, the big strong football man, always said, “Maybe we’ll make a punter out of him yet!” with an air of half-joking, half-longing.

Speaking of Jack: where was he? Not in the bed, not in the kitchen. It wasn’t until I reached the living room that I found him, passed out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over a pillow. That arm of his made tears spring to my eyes. He always did that when he was sleeping, though I usually took the place of the pillow. I had always been an emotional person, and with the baby and all, I was a walking bomb of tears. I touched him gently on the shoulder with one hand, while wiping my eyes with the other. He didn’t immediately wake up, and after a few more attempts, the tears turned to suspicion. Jack was never this hard to wake up unless…

I crouched over him, opening his eyes with one finger. Yep. They were bloodshot alright. His face was flushed, though from a night out or a cold he was developing, I couldn’t tell. My worst fears were confirmed when he let out a long breath, and the smell of alcohol invaded my nose, making me nauseous. He had been drunk all right. No more Mrs. Nice Wife. The hand that had moved me to tears fell to the floor as he shifted to his sleep, and I took the opportunity to step on it…hard.

He let out a string of obscenities, and then yelled, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WOMAN?”

Oh, he knew how much I hated being called ‘woman’ (or was he too hung over to remember?). Two could play at that game. “You’ve been drinking!” I accused my voice as loud as his.

“Yeah, so?” he challenged, shoving himself off of the couch to tower over me. I was five five, and he was six two, so when he wanted to, he could really bear down on me. I guess he meant to intimidate me, but I would not be swayed.

“You swore you wouldn’t!” I said, shoving his chest. “I don’t want the baby to grow up with a drunk for a father! You said you’d stop drinking! You were going to be sober, remember? Or did the booze just wash your memory away?”

“I will!” he yelled. “I’m a grown man, and I’ll do what I want! I’ll stop drinking before the baby gets here!”

“Well, Jack, dear,” I screamed, my voice just dripping with sarcasm, “I’m eight months and two weeks pregnant! So you better start now, cause’ it’s gonna take you a looong time. If you won’t stop for me, stop for your kid!”

He rolled his eyes and matched my sarcasm. “The baby? What baby, Emma? Oh, the baby! I almost forgot you were pregnant, seeing as you NEVER mention it!”

“What do you want me to do? Completely ignore it? If you haven’t noticed, there’s a large bump protruding out of my body!” I gestured to my baby bump as I spoke.

“Well, you don’t have to freaking talk about it all the time!”

I burst into tears. I didn’t know whether I was crying about his alcoholism or his blatant indifference about his own child, but it was still enough to make me sob. He seemed unmoved by my tears. I wiped my eyes, tried to control my voice as I said, “You’re not the man I married. I don’t know who you are, but I know that I want that sweet, kind, caring Jack, not the angry, bitter, rude Jack. Get over yourself.”

Then I couldn’t hold back my tears anymore, and with my hand on my belly, I left the room.

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