At 35 Weeks Pregnant, My Husband Woke Me up in the Middle of the Night — What He Said Made Me File for Divorce

When I gave delivery, I believed the toughest part was over, but my husband unexpectedly showed up in my hospital bed with tears in his eyes and a request.

I’m 33-year-old Hannah, and up until lately, I thought I was creating a lovely life with the man I loved.

I had been dating Michael for about nine years. It was in high school that we first met. I was the girl who needed help with equations, and he was the tall, silent guy who sat behind me in chemistry and always had gum. That somehow evolved into pledges muttered in parked cars, late-night diner runs, and homecoming dates.

We took our time getting married. We both put in a lot of work, saved money, and purchased a modest two-bedroom house in a nice suburb of New Jersey. I am a third-grade teacher. Michael is employed in the IT industry. We’ve always been reliable, but we’re not ostentatious. Or so I believed.

We tried to conceive for three years. It was the most difficult time of our marriage. I sobbed in the restroom at work for months at a time. I had to smile despite the pain when I saw pupils design depictions of their family, complete with mother, father, and child.

We endured hormone shots, fertility tests, and hopeful mornings that were followed by tearful nights. I nearly skipped the test one morning because I couldn’t stand to get another negative, but then I noticed the smallest line.

The next week, Michael and I were at the doctor’s office. I started crying as soon as the doctor stated, “Congratulations, you’re pregnant,” with a smile. “We did it, baby.” Michael said as he drew me closer.

I never forgot that moment. I clung to it like a warm light in my chest for months.

The nursery was painted a gentle shade of green. I imagined how our lives would alter as I sat on the floor folding small onesies. We talked about potential sports interests, bedtime stories, and name choices. We felt as though we were finally living out a fantasy.

But something changed in Michael as my stomach expanded.

He began going out more frequently. He would say, “Just grabbing drinks with the guys,” However, he would arrive home late, with a cigarette and alcohol odor. “Since when do you smoke?” I inquired, wrinkling my nose when I first noticed.

He merely chuckled. “It’s secondhand. Relax, babe.”

I attributed it to stress. Being a father is intimidating. That wasn’t all, though. He developed… detached. Far away. When we sat on the couch, he stopped groping for my stomach. His good-night kisses grew hurried and preoccupied.

I made one attempt to speak with him. “Are you okay, Michael?” I questioned as we sat on the couch eating takeout for dinner.

He hardly raised his head. “Yeah. Just work stuff.”

I only received that.

I was emotionally and physically exhausted by 35 weeks. Not only was I pregnant, but the weight of trying to keep everything together also made my body feel heavy in an inexplicable way.

My back hurt all the time. I could hardly ascend the stairs without stopping, and my feet ballooned up like balloons. I had my hospital bag packed by the door, lists double-checked, and everything in order since the doctor had gently reminded me, “Be ready. You could go into labor at any time.”

To keep my hands occupied, I was folding baby clothing again that night—clothes I had folded a dozen times already. My phone buzzed when I was seated on the nursery floor, surrounded by plush toys and delicate pastels.

Michael was the one.

“Hey, babe,” he said, sounding far too happy for the hour. “Don’t freak out, but the guys are coming over tonight. Big game. I didn’t want to go to a bar with all that smoke, so we’ll just watch it here.”

I looked at the clock and blinked. It was around nine o’clock at night.

“You know I need to go to bed early now, Michael,” I remarked, trying not to sound annoyed. “And what if something happens tonight? I might have to go to the hospital.”

As usual, he dismissed me with a laugh.

“Relax, sweetheart. We’ll stay in the living room. You won’t even notice us. Come on, it’s just one night. When am I ever gonna hang out with the guys again once the baby’s here?”

I paused. My gut told me no, but I was too exhausted to resist.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Just… keep it down, okay?”

He said, “Promise,” already preoccupied. In the background, I heard laughter and voices.

By the time they got there, the apartment was a flurry of activity, with loud laughter, bottles clinking, and TV yelling. Pulling the blankets up over my legs, I backed away to our bedroom and closed the door. I put one palm over my stomach and felt tiny, gentle kicks.

Softly, “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said. “Mommy’s just tired.”

Finally, fatigue prevailed. Despite the noise, I must have fallen asleep.

Then I sensed a hand prodding me on my shoulder.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Michael was the one. He had an off-key, straining voice.

I gave him a blink. Long shadows were created when the light from the hallway flooded into the space. His eyes were hazy and his face was taut.

I sat up and asked, “What’s wrong?” “Did something happen?”

He appeared restless as he brushed his hands together. I saw his fingers shake a little. His jaw was clinched as he paced close to the foot of the bed.

“No, it’s just… something the guys said tonight got me thinking.”

Still half sleeping and bewildered, I scowled.

“Thinking about what?”

He took a while to respond. He simply continued to pace, paused, and gave me a serious look before averting his eyes.

“About the baby.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“What about the baby, Michael?”

He let out a breath, as if he had practiced this in his mind and was still unsure of how to say it aloud.

“I just… I want to make sure it’s mine.”

Quiet.

I gazed at him. At first, the words didn’t make any sense.

“What did you just say?”

“Look, it’s not like that,” he blurted out. He raised the pitch of his voice. “It’s just — someone brought up the timeline tonight, and it got me thinking. I don’t know, okay? Last year, you were really stressed, and I traveled a lot for work and…”

“You think I cheated on you?”

He yelled, “I just want peace of mind!” “I want a DNA test before the birth.”

Tears were starting to form behind my eyes. I slowly shook my head.

“Michael, I’m 35 weeks pregnant. You’ve held this baby’s ultrasound in your hands. You helped pick out her name. We built her crib together.”

Unmoved, he crossed his arms.

“You wouldn’t be so defensive if there weren’t something to hide.”

His remarks were like a blade. I tried to take in the man in front of me by blinking. This was not the Michael who used to give me foot massages and bring me snacks at midnight when I was wanting them. The man who had held my hand at every doctor’s appointment was not this one.

That man has vanished.

Without saying anything further, he walked out of the room. In the living room, I heard him laughing once more as if nothing had occurred. Bottles made a clinking sound. The game started over again.

I remained motionless in bed, my stomach heaving under the weight of everything—not just the baby, but also his words, his uncertainty, and his treachery. I put my hand over the lump as if I could protect her from everything.

Michael returned much later, when the apartment at last became quiet. I was still conscious, my cheeks marred by weeping.

“Michael,” I trembled and murmured in a low voice, “if you don’t trust me, why are you even with me?”

He avoided making eye contact and shrugged.

“I just need answers. I deserve to know the truth.”

“The truth?” I asked, straightening my posture. “I’ve spent every day of this pregnancy worrying, praying, hoping she’s healthy. While you’ve been out with your friends, ignoring me. You think I’d cheat on you?”

He averted his gaze once more.

“Maybe I just don’t know who you are anymore.”

Something broke inside of me. It was clear and bright, but it wasn’t loud.

With a soft voice, I said, “You know what?” “If you’re so sure this baby isn’t yours — if you can stand here and accuse me like that — then maybe we shouldn’t be together at all. Maybe I should file for divorce.”

I thought for a second that Michael might object. I feared he would retract it, drop to his knees, and claim he didn’t mean a word. Perhaps he would apologize, blame the booze, or claim he panicked.