The Last Trimester

In late January 2008, I arrived at work experiencing contractions every ten minutes. I couldn’t afford to take time off and needed to conserve my limited paid time off for after the baby was born.

I was sent to the hospital, only to be sent back home because I was just one centimeter dilated, and my due date was still two weeks away.

My car was in the shop, so my son's father drove me to work and picked me up afterward. We weren't truly together anymore.

He stayed for the afternoon, and we played video games, but I had to stop as the contractions intensified. I eventually made us something to eat while noticing how the intervals between contractions were decreasing.

Panic set in as I realized what was coming.

“I’m down to seven minutes apart,” I said, squeezing a pillow during a contraction, trying to breathe steadily.

He didn’t respond or even glance my way.

“They’ve gotten three minutes shorter in just a few hours,” I attempted to express my concern.

Still, he was silent and inattentive, just as he had been all day.

He switched off the game.

“Please don’t leave now,” I begged.

“The doctor said it would be tomorrow,” he replied as he grabbed his jacket.

“He said probably!” My desperation was palpable, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Without another word, he left just after 9 PM.

To distract myself, I pretended to watch an important show, a habit I had developed during my lonely pregnancy. Around 11 PM, I changed for bed, used the restroom, and returned to the sofa.

I sat down, and in seconds, I thought I had peed myself. Suddenly, I realized, OMG, my water just broke!

I called my son’s father to tell him I needed to go to the hospital immediately. I texted, left voicemails, but he ignored all my attempts. I even called his friend for help, but he was “unreachable.”

I wasn't naive; I knew exactly what he was doing—getting ready to go out to the club with his friends.

The physical pain was immense, but the emotional turmoil of being stranded without transportation and the anger at the man who should have been there made the pain exponentially worse.

Finally, I reached out to a friend who was out on a date. She quickly came over, helped me get dressed, and took me to the hospital.

She was furious that my son’s father wouldn’t answer his phone, but I told her it was pointless until after 3 AM.

Sure enough, after that, he finally picked up.

He arrived at the hospital, probably drunk, accompanied by his best friend.

Thank goodness I allowed myself to get an epidural at the last possible moment; I was physically exhausted by the time they showed up. Feeling powerless and emotionally drained, I surrendered to the situation.

Little did I know, this was just the start of an emotional struggle that he would inflict on me, putting our son in the crossfire.

I Have a Baby

I insisted that my doctor allow me to return to work just ten days after giving birth (the earliest I could retrieve my car) so I wouldn’t lose my job, as I wasn’t eligible for FMLA yet. I promised to work through the weekend to catch up.

My manager agreed. Thank goodness!

The next day, I received a call saying that it wouldn’t be possible after all. Not only that, but I was fired. What? I had just spoken to you yesterday. You saw me come in with contractions. I was sent home and had a baby within 24 hours. How am I fired?

“We have been restructuring. I spoke with HR after our conversation yesterday, and unfortunately, they informed me that your position has been eliminated,” she explained. Are you kidding me?

What was I going to do now?

The nights were long, and breastfeeding was challenging and lonely. I was a single mother, and sometimes I didn’t know who was crying more—me or my son. By three weeks in, I was nearly falling apart.

I discovered that I wasn’t producing enough milk to sustain him, raising concerns about postpartum depression that I would never admit to experiencing.

During the day, I took him wherever I could find a computer to fill out job applications, typing with one hand while feeding him with the other. By early April, I finally started a new job, but I was a wreck.

I could barely say “hi” without sounding bitter. I wasn’t angry with the new people I was meeting; I was too busy being angry with myself for thinking my son’s father would be there for us. I was furious with him for not being present and making everything harder. I was frustrated with myself for being surprised by his absence.

I felt depleted and furious, and above all, I was exhausted.

My greatest fear was failing my son, and despite my best efforts, I felt like I was already doing just that.

I Had to Learn to Play

If my life were a game of Monopoly, I would have gone bankrupt. That’s how I felt.

I refused to accept that outcome. I had to learn from my parents' mistakes and do better. This goal had been on my mind for years. Now, I was a mother— a single mother.

I needed to seek help.

I took advantage of the Healthy Families program that I had heard about. They provided visits to check on developmental milestones and shared guidance on what to expect. My son hit and exceeded his milestones, especially after he was no longer starving because I couldn’t produce enough milk.

A friend who had fallen on hard times moved in with my son and me. He became “Uncle” and sometimes the only one my son would allow to comfort him. To this day, my son adores “Uncle,” and even his cousins refer to him as such.

Despite dealing with severe back pain, I began exercising regularly and learning about nutrition. I read various books, particularly one about setting boundaries. These changes began transforming my life. I was ready to break free from limitations and expectations set by others. I didn’t have to accept my parents' health or lifestyle as my fate.

Time to Get Away

During this period, my son’s father and I remained on and off. When we were together, he would come around on weekends; when we weren’t, he would occasionally visit his son every couple of weeks. This continued until the summer of 2012.

Despite having a few "good" months together, I sensed something was amiss. I couldn’t pinpoint it. Was he cheating? I couldn’t be sure.

I went to see him to find out.

It was close to lunchtime, yet he was still in bed when I arrived.

“Hey…” I initiated.

“What’s up?” he replied.

I wasn’t there to play games, so I got straight to the point.

“Do you even love me?” I asked.

He hesitated before answering, “Yeah…but it’s not enough,” still lying under the blankets.

“Seriously?”

He didn’t even sit up.

I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand.

That was it! In seven years, that was the closest he had ever come to expressing love for me, and he didn’t even say the actual words!

Why had I tolerated this for so long? I was worth more than this. I had vowed not to settle, yet here I was, repeatedly taking him back and allowing him to treat me thi