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“If we do it one more time, Mel,” Ethan said, already smoothing the paper across the counter. “Then we can wipe it all out! Mom’s car loan, her credit cards, and even my dad’s funeral balance. It will all be done!”
I didn’t respond right away. A sharp, familiar ache pulsed deep in my pelvis. It came and went in waves — phantom pain, maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t phantom at all. Some days I still felt nausea out of nowhere, and now, I couldn’t tell if it was hormonal or just dread.
“You’re serious? Ethan?” I finally asked. “I’m still healing. My body hasn’t recovered. I haven’t recovered.”
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“I’m not asking you to do it next week,” he said quickly, moving closer to me. “I just mean… think about it. If we get ahead of this debt, we can finally breathe. No more juggling bills. No more stress. We could finally go away on that beach holiday we’ve wanted.”
He smiled at me like he’d just offered me the world.
That night, we lay in bed with our backs almost touching. I couldn’t sleep. My body ached in strange, quiet places. The stretch marks along my stomach felt deeper than skin-deep. I could still feel the ghost of a contraction when I shifted too fast.
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“You’re doing this for us, Mel,” Ethan whispered, his voice a soft thread in the dark. “For our future and for my mom’s peace of mind.”
I stared up at the ceiling. The fan creaked overhead. Something inside me clenched — something quiet and knowing.
And I said yes. Again.
The second pregnancy was almost a year later, and unraveled me in ways I didn’t expect.
Everything felt heavier. My back throbbed by noon most days, and the swelling in my legs made walking feel like moving through wet cement. Some nights I lay awake for hours while Ethan snored in the next room.
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He had started sleeping in the guest room “to get better rest.” That’s what he told me the first time he grabbed a pillow and walked out. I tried to understand, but the space between us only grew wider.
“Can you help me out of the tub?” I called to him one evening from the bathroom.
“You said you were okay with this, Melissa,” he said, frowning in the doorway. “Don’t make me feel guilty for something you agreed to.”
I said nothing. I just reached for a towel and pulled myself up as slowly and carefully as I could. I winced at the dull ache in my lower belly. I had no energy left to argue.
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Still, I went to every appointment. I kept myself as healthy as I possibly could. I carried the baby like it was my responsibility alone.
And when she was born — little Hazel, with thick dark hair and a cry that filled the room — I placed her gently into her mother’s arms and turned away before the tears could fall.
The next morning, Ethan checked our account. The final payment had cleared.
“It’s done,” he said, his tone flat but satisfied. “Mom’s house is paid off. We’re finally free.”
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I thought we meant both of us. He didn’t.
A month later, Ethan came home early. I was sitting on the floor with Jacob, “Sesame Street” murmuring in the background. My husband stood in the doorway with a look I couldn’t read.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
