I Was the One Carrying the Child, Not Just the Weight

When I was pregnant, I couldn’t even tie my own shoes. I believed I deserved love and care—not just because I was someone’s wife, but because I was carrying his child. And he was everything to me—my hero, my great love.
As the months passed, I became moody, craving comfort and attention. I expected him to always be by my side, watching over me, because I was about to bring new life into the world. Friends stopped calling, he stopped going out, and our world shrank to just us two. Then came spring, and with it, the birth of our first child. The three of us became a family. My heart was full, and I basked in the warmth of motherhood and love—at least for a while. But one day, I stepped out to buy something. I topped up my phone and returned, only to find our baby tied safely nearby—and a note from him. His clothes were gone. He had left.