I leaned against the headboard, tears streaming down my face through the long hours of the night.

I didn’t know how to face this contaminated marriage.

A cheating husband is like a dollar bill that’s fallen into the filthiest cesspool—too valuable to throw away, yet revolting to pick up.

If I didn’t have a baby on the way, I could walk out on Maverick without hesitation. I am, after all, Zaina—someone who knows how to hold on but isn’t afraid to let go. If a relationship’s end comes, I can make it clean, unencumbered.

But the baby... it’s almost here. What would happen to it?

Perhaps sensing the turmoil in my heart, the baby kicked relentlessly, rolling and pressing against me as if trying to offer comfort.

But the more the baby kicked, the more fragile I felt. My emotions spun downward, tears falling uncontrollably, a broken faucet with no one to shut it off.

Divorce—and an abortion? Unthinkable.

I believe every mother who’s ever felt her child move inside her would agree: it’s impossible to let go after that.

But then, divorce and raising this child alone?

Single motherhood is hardly scandalous anymore. Women do it every day—they succeed, they thrive, they raise their kids just fine. I could, too.

And yet, I couldn’t stop picturing a pair of innocent, wide, liquid eyes staring up at me a few years from now, asking, "Mom, why does everyone else have a dad? Where’s my dad?"

What would I say then?

I cradled my swollen belly, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. "Baby," I whispered, "what should Mommy do?"

I didn’t sleep a second that night.

By six in the morning, the bedroom door burst open with a bang. My mother-in-law barged in, ire rising like steam from a kettle. "Zaina, it’s past six! Still lazing in bed instead of making breakfast? Are you trying to starve me to death?" she snapped.

My morning routine was predictably set: up by six, breakfast ready before calling her downstairs—without fail, even with my heavy, unbearable third-trimester body screaming for rest.

But the sleepless night had dulled everything. My sour mood. My body’s exhaustion. I simply hadn’t cared.

I rubbed my swollen, puffy eyes. "Mom, I’m not feeling well today. Could you maybe make something for yourself?"

She snorted, the sound derisive. "Don’t you try and slack off just because you’re pregnant. When I had Maverick, I was still toiling away in the fields on that very day. You’ve got no excuse for laziness!"

Six months ago, when I was three months pregnant, Maverick had brought her from their rural village to "help care for me."

To her credit, when she first arrived, she brimmed with enthusiasm, even lugging two old hens all the way from the countryside, claiming she’d use them to make nourishing soups for me. Those early days were bliss. Meals appeared before me like magic; I was served, pampered—like royalty, I thought.

Every time I tried to help, she’d leap in immediately. "Zee, you’re pregnant! You don’t lift a finger, you hear me? Want something to eat or drink? You tell me. If I don’t know how to make it, I’ll learn," she’d say, her voice honeyed with kindness.

I felt blessed back then. A devoted husband and a caring mother-in-law—what more could I ask for?

"Mom, Dad," I’d thought silently, "you can rest easy up there."

But two or three months later, everything abruptly shifted. My mother-in-law stopped cooking, stopped cleaning—worried about her own comfort instead. And worse, she began to expect me to cook for her, even with my unwieldy belly. She insisted I hand-wash her dirty laundry, sneering at the washing machine as "wasteful" and "incompetent at truly getting clothes clean."

The transformation was shocking. At first, I searched for logical answers—even blaming myself. Had I somehow offended her?

I’d never been asked to do housework growing up; I was my parents’ prized jewel. Washing dishes, cleaning floors—my hands were spared from all of it. Maverick himself had once teased me, calling me a "pampered little princess."

So I tried. I began learning domestic tasks, stumbling through them awkwardly. But my body rebelled—pregnancy hit hard. The smell of cooking oil turned my stomach inside out, and sweeping or mopping became Herculean with my growing belly.

"Can we hire a part-timer to help?" I asked her cautiously one day.

Her face froze, then twisted into disdain. "Oh, you girls from the city are something else. Can’t even get your hands dirty a little without whining? Always lounging around—how’re you going to handle childbirth when your body’s so soft? Hiring help! Ha! I’m doing this for your own good."

I opened my mouth to push back, to keep the conversation alive, but she cut me off. "And who’s paying for this so-called ‘help’? You think money grows on trees? Maverick sweats and bleeds to earn it, and all you want to do is spend?"

I took a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. "Mom, I spend only the money I earn myself. Maverick’s money doesn’t come to me."

It was true—our household finances had always been separate. The house and the seed capital for Maverick’s business? Both came from the inheritance my parents left me. Money was never something that concerned me much growing up; I hardly gave it a second thought.

The moment those words left my lips, she slapped the table with her palm so hard it rang. "You married Maverick, didn’t you? Since when are ‘yours’ and ‘his’ even a question? Aren’t you two one family?"

Her contradiction hit me like a slap. How was it that Maverick’s earnings weren’t mine, but my money was somehow his?

The tension between us grew until Maverick stepped in to smooth it over. He gently chastised her, then promised me that as soon as the baby was born, he’d take her back to the countryside and hire proper help for us.

"Living with someone whose lifestyle and upbringing differ so much," he said, "is too hard for either of you."

He was right. From the day she moved in, she’d pressured me with her antiquated habits, tried to mold me into her image—so many of which left me stunned and frustrated.

Like the time a neighbor’s misdelivered package ended up at our door. She wanted to keep it, despite knowing it wasn’t ours. When I insisted on returning it, she glared like I’d grown a second head. "You idiot—free stuff’s fallen into your lap, and you’re giving it up? Make the courier pay for their mistake, but don’t give it back! What’s wrong with you?"

I couldn’t comprehend her logic. Everyone learns in kindergarten not to steal what isn’t theirs.

Even Maverick was ashamed. "I’m sorry," he confessed privately. "My mom—a widow raising four kids on her own—she picked up certain... habits. Selfishness, penny-pinching. It’s embarrassing, and it hurts to see."

"I understand, honey," I told him. "You want to honor her, but this... this isn’t what honoring her should look like."

He sighed deeply, his face heavy with guilt. "Baby, I’m stuck. I really don’t know what to do."

My heart ached for him, caught and ground down between us. My parents always taught me to be virtuous, to endure, to forgive. After their passing, I lost even distant family ties—I had no one but Maverick and, by extension, her.

Still, today was different. Today, I just... couldn’t.

Before I could say anything more, she yanked me from the bed. "Get up and cook already! Or when Maverick gets back, I’ll see to it that he gives you the beating you deserve for being such a lazy wife."

Her grip outmatched my strength, and I stumbled forward. But as my feet touched the ground, I froze.

A sudden rush of liquid streamed down my legs, warm and unstoppable.

I choked back a sob, my voice shaking uncontrollably. "Mom—my water... my water just broke!"