I never imagined I’d be writing this, but here I am, needing to vent and share the valuable lesson my husband learned the hard way.I’m 32 and stepping into motherhood. My husband, Dave, is 34 and has always had a bit of a complicated relationship with his mother. Marlene is the type of mother who called for every little thing, expecting him to drop everything and come as soon as she needed.“Hey, Aria,” Dave would say. “Mom needs me, I’ll be right back.” And he would dash out of the house, ready to save the day.
I used to find it endearing until the day I went into labor. I was at 38 weeks, and I knew that the time was coming. One evening, I felt the contractions start. Everything was going smoothly until I was about six hours into the agonizing labor.“Just breathe, darling,” Dave said, squeezing my hand. “Before you know it, our little girl will be here!”But then, Dave’s phone rang, and he quickly stepped out into the hall to take the call. When he came back, he seemed a bit agitated. Then, just a few minutes later, his phone buzzed with a text message. He read it and looked concerned, his eyes darting all over the room as he was lost in his thoughts.“What’s going on?” I asked, already feeling anxious and vulnerable.He looked at me, almost annoyed that I had the audacity to ask him. “I need to go, Aria. But it will be quick. I’ll be quick, promise.”“What?”
