At eight months pregnant, I discovered my husband had completely drained my $48,000 emergency pregnancy fund. I checked his phone’s GPS and found out he was in Hawaii, chilling on a beach resort with his female co-workers. I booked a flight, flew straight there, and confronted him in front of them all. He just smirked, sipping a cocktail and saying: “A man has physiological needs; a pregnant wife at home is completely helpless to stop me.” He returned home days later sunburnt and laughing, but the locks were changed, and signed divorce papers were taped to the door of a house that now legally belonged to a complete stranger.
He didn’t look ashamed; he looked inconvenienced. “A temporary business investment, Claire. High yield, low risk. It’s for our future.”
“You said this trip was for a regional conference,” I said, turning to face him. The weight of the baby, whom I had already named Lily in my heart, felt like a literal anchor dragging me down.