The rain came down in sheets the night everything turned. When I finally got home, I wasn’t by myself — and the look on my husband’s face when he saw who came with me said more than words ever could.
By the time I left the office that evening, my body didn’t feel like mine anymore.
My feet were puffed up, my back hurt with a steady, nagging ache, and the baby pushed so hard it felt like my ribs were going to split.
Eight months pregnant isn’t beautiful. It’s heavy and tiring, like carrying something you can’t drop.
I walked to the parking garage, one hand under my belly, trying to keep balanced.
I’d kept working full days all through the pregnancy, mostly because I needed the money, and partly because keeping busy beat sitting at home feeling my marriage slowly fade away.
Colm had decided around my sixth month that the pregnancy was my problem alone.
He never came out and said it plainly. He just… stopped. Stopped going to check-ups, stopped making meals, stopped asking how I was holding up.
Colm began going to the gym twice a day — early morning and late evening — because, he said, “Someone in this house needs to stay fit.”
The first time he said it, I laughed, thinking he was kidding.
The next time, I didn’t laugh.
Sadly, I didn’t have parents or family nearby to lean on — I’d been adopted.
My mother-in-law, Bede, picked up on things earlier than I did. She’d call to see how I was, but I gave short, polite replies because Colm got mad whenever she stepped in.
He called her bossy, over-dramatic, always trying to paint him as the bad guy. He’d told me not to “bring her into our issues.” His words exactly. So I kept quiet.
I convinced myself that marriage meant sorting things ourselves, that getting help would only stir more trouble.
That cold, rainy evening, all I wanted was to get home, take a hot shower, and lie down.
I started the engine and drove into the storm, rain already hitting the windshield like a warning I brushed off. The drive felt long and silent.
My mind jumped between the baby arriving soon and the endless list of things I still had to finish before leave started.
Halfway there, the steering wheel began to shake.
At first I blamed the road.
Then the shake became a wobble.
Then the sound came — low and clear.
I eased over under a weak streetlamp, heart racing as I stopped. Rain drenched me the second I got out.
I didn’t have to look hard to know what was wrong, but I checked anyway.
The tire was dead flat.
I stood in the downpour, water running down my face, hands trembling as fear rose. The baby kicked inside me, feeling my stress, my belly going tight.
Being alone, so pregnant, on the roadside at night made my chest squeeze until breathing felt hard. I pulled out my phone and dialed Colm.
Not begging. Just seeing.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound steady. “Flat tire. Can you come help?”
A pause. Then a sigh.
“I’m by myself, scared, and worn out. It’s dark and pouring. I can’t do this alone.”
“You caused it, so you fix it,” Colm said, annoyed. “Not my problem. I’ve got the gym. Search online or something. Women handle it every day.”
I thought I’d heard him wrong.
“I’m eight months pregnant,” I whispered. “It’s raining hard. I can barely move.”
“There’s a spare tire, isn’t there?” he snapped. “I can’t skip the gym. I have to stay in shape for you, dear.”
The words cut sharp and clean.
A long quiet followed.
Then I said, soft but sure, “You’re right. I’ll find someone who actually comes through.”
He hung up.
For a second I stood in the rain, heart pounding, body sore. Tears mixed with the water on my face.
Then I chose: I’d do exactly what he said — take care of it myself.
I leaned my phone against the car, pulled up a quick how-to video, got down on the wet ground, and pushed through every painful motion.
But after twenty minutes of struggling, something inside me changed — and it had nothing to do with the baby.
I opened my contacts and pressed Bede’s name.
The phone rang twice.
“Prue?” she answered, voice worried. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not. I’m stuck with a flat tire, and Colm won’t come.”
No delay.
“Where exactly are you?”
Bede showed up faster than I thought possible. Her headlights sliced through the rain like a kept promise.
She got out with an umbrella and a look that mixed worry with quiet anger.
She didn’t scold or question why Colm wasn’t there.
She draped a blanket over my shoulders, helped me into her car, then called for a tow.
As we drove, rain tapped steadily on the roof. The quiet between us felt heavy but kind. At last she spoke.
“That boy has no idea what being a husband really means.”
I nodded. Words wouldn’t come.
When we reached my driveway after midnight, I stayed in the seat, staring at the lit front door. Colm was inside.
I was soaked, drained, and hurting.
“I don’t want to go in there by myself,” I told Bede. “Will you come inside with me?”
She looked at me for a moment. Then nodded.
“Of course.”
I opened the door.
Colm glanced up from the couch, smug at first, then pale and stunned when he realized it wasn’t only me — Bede stood right there.
“Since you were too busy,” I said quietly, stepping aside, “I found someone who wasn’t.”
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
That was the first time I saw true fear in his eyes.
Bede stayed over that night. I didn’t ask Colm. I told him it was happening.
He grumbled about boundaries, about her butting in, but I was too tired to fight back.
I went to bed, the baby’s weight solid and comforting, my head full of unsaid things.
The next morning I woke to talking in the kitchen.
I didn’t sneak. I listened.
Bede’s voice stayed even, controlled, and sharp in its honesty.
She talked about pregnancy, fear, and what it takes to step up. She told him how tough it had been carrying him, and how she’d never have forgiven his father if he’d acted the way Colm acted toward me.
“Prue is the kind of woman any man would be fortunate to hold onto,” she said. “And you’re doing everything possible to lose her.”
No arguments. No excuses.
When I walked in, I didn’t say sorry for listening.
Later that day, after a talk with Bede, I packed a bag.
“I’m going to your mother’s,” I told Colm. “I need rest. And room to breathe.”
He tried to argue. I held firm. “She showed up when you didn’t. I’m not staying in a place where I feel alone even with you sitting next to me.”
I closed the door behind me without turning back.
And walking away, I knew this wasn’t just about a tire anymore.
Bede’s house smelled like cinnamon and worn books.
She’d fixed up the guest room with extra pillows and a heating pad. In the corner was a wicker bassinet, freshly wiped — left over from her days fostering newborns as a nurse.
She didn’t point it out — just left it there like a gentle offer.
I slept deeper that night than I had in months.
In the morning, over oatmeal and decaf, Bede asked if I wanted a small baby shower: just a handful of people, some snacks, nothing fancy.
I hadn’t had one yet. Colm had said we were too busy and short on cash, that it wasn’t “his thing.”
I said yes so fast she smiled over her spoon.
She made calls, ordered supplies, even pulled out an old punch bowl from storage.
I watched that sixty-something woman move with quiet respect.
All this time I’d trusted Colm’s picture of her: pushy, dramatic, tough to be around. But here she was — calm, caring, giving me the support I hadn’t realized I needed.
While we folded napkins, I asked, “Why did you let me believe you were the issue?”
She set the napkin down.
“I didn’t let you believe anything,” she said. “He did. And I was too worn down to push back against his story.”
I nodded — I knew that feeling too well.
The day of the shower, Bede’s small house filled with chatter and warmth.
Coworkers showed up with gifts and funny tips. Neighbors brought dishes. A woman from my prenatal group brought a handmade blanket that brought tears.
Then Colm walked in.
I’d mentioned it to him, but never expected him to appear.
He looked like he’d come from the gym — hair wet, jaw set. He held a small wrapped box and wore that forced smile he used when he thought charm could smooth things over.
“Hey,” he said, coming close. “Can we talk?”
“Later,” I said. “This isn’t about you.”
He nodded and stepped away, looking around. Then he cleared his throat and spoke up.
“I just want to say something,” he started. “I’ve screwed up. I get it now. But I’m ready to step up.”
A few polite claps. My hands stayed still.
Then Bede stood. She didn’t shout; she didn’t have to.
“Before we continue,” she said, “I’d like to tell a short story.”
Colm went stiff.
“Three nights ago, Prue was stranded in the rain with a flat tire. Eight months pregnant, alone, exhausted. She called her husband — my son — for help. He told her to watch a video and fix it herself.”
People shifted in their seats. Quiet spread.
Bede kept going. “She tried on her own, then called me. And what I saw when I picked her up wasn’t someone weak. It was a woman made strong by what she had to face. A woman choosing to move ahead instead of waiting to be saved.”
She looked at me.
“She’s the kind of woman I’m proud to call family.”
Applause came — real and strong.
Colm left before the cake was cut. I didn’t go after him.
That night at Bede’s, I sat on the couch with leftover quiche and my hand on my belly. The baby moved softly. I felt warm, full, and secure.
Bede sat next to me. “You did that. You lifted yourself up and didn’t wait around.”
I smiled. “I used to think you were difficult. Overbearing.”
She laughed quietly. “I used to be — before I had Colm.”
I laughed too, then winced as the baby turned.
“I believed every word he said about you,” I admitted. “I’m sorry for that.”
“You don’t owe me sorry. You owed yourself better.”
I don’t know what happens next. Maybe Colm steps up. Maybe not.
But right now, I have what matters — space, clear thinking, and a baby coming who will grow up watching a mother who stands firm when it counts.
Because I didn’t wait for someone to save me.
I saved myself.
And I brought backup.