At 39 weeks pregnant, I was struggling through contractions while my husband packed an overnight bag, preparing to leave with his mother so he could get some rest before our baby arrived. By the following morning, my mother-in-law was sending me furious messages in all capital letters. Suddenly, nobody seemed concerned about Jake’s sleep anymore.
The first thing Jake carried out of the house was his overnight bag.
The second was a pillow Brenda insisted he needed because, according to her, her pillows were much better for his neck.
I stood in the doorway of our laundry room, one hand supporting my enormous stomach, watching my husband prepare for a weekend away. Behind me, tiny baby socks and newborn clothes remained scattered in unfolded piles, waiting for someone to organize them.
“Your ankles are enormous,” Brenda remarked, as though she had just discovered that pregnancy could cause swelling. “You should sit down.”
I had already been trying to sit down for twenty minutes.
Every time I lowered myself onto the couch, another pair of tiny pajamas caught my attention, or the hospital bag reminded me that the baby carrier was still sitting unopened in its packaging.
Jake yawned from the couch.
Brenda immediately turned toward him.
“My poor baby.”
He was 31 years old.
I was 39 weeks pregnant, carrying a child who seemed determined to practice kicking directly through my ribs. Yet Brenda crossed the room and gently pressed the back of her hand against Jake’s forehead.
“You look exhausted, darling.”
Jake gave me a small, apologetic smile.
“I haven’t slept well, Mom.”
Neither had I.
The difference was that nobody had packed me a comfortable pillow or suggested that I needed a weekend away to recover.
Brenda had arrived just 15 minutes earlier, letting herself in with her spare key. She was carrying chicken soup and the firm belief that almost every problem in our marriage could be solved by removing Jake from the situation.
It was something she had been doing for years.
When our washing machine flooded, she called a repairman before Jake even had the chance to touch the shutoff valve.
When he struggled with his tax forms, she showed up with a folder containing paperwork she had already completed.
When we moved into our house, she assembled our bedroom furniture while Jake fetched drinks. Afterwards, she proudly told everyone she was simply faster than the rest of us.
For a long time, I called it generosity.
Then I became pregnant.
