I’d swallowed the retort. Dr. Patel, my gynaecologist, had warned me at my last appointment that my blood pressure was creeping up and that sleep deprivation could push it into dangerous territory.
I hadn’t told my husband. I didn’t want to hear him sigh about it.
***
Now, at 2:55 a.m., I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling fan and willing my body not to shift. The baby kicked hard, right under my ribs, and I sucked in a breath I tried to swallow silently.
I hadn’t told my husband.
Ryan stirred. I felt the mattress tighten beneath him, the way it does when someone’s muscles have gone rigid with irritation.
“Please,” I whispered to no one. “Please, just let me sleep.”
He didn’t hear me. Or, if he did, he didn’t answer.
I closed my eyes and counted the baby’s kicks, one, two, three, and told myself that later in the day things would feel less sharp. I told myself Ryan was tired, I was tired, and we’d find our way back.
“Please, just let me sleep.”
***
At exactly 3:04 a.m., Ryan shot upright in bed as if something had bitten him!
I froze mid-turn, one hand still cradling my belly, the other clutching the pillow wedged under my hip.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t help it. The baby’s kicking, and my back…”
He didn’t let me finish. He just stared at me with a flat, tired look, as if I were a leaky faucet he’d been meaning to fix.
“Then you need to sleep somewhere else!”
Ryan shot upright in bed!
My husband reached across to the kitchen counter, grabbed my car keys, and tossed them onto the comforter between us.
“You’ve got reclining seats.”
I just stared at him. He had to be joking.
“Ryan… I’m eight months pregnant.”
“So?” He rubbed his eyes. “I pay the rent. I need sleep so that I can work. You’re on maternity leave. It won’t kill you to sleep in the car for a few weeks.”
He had to be joking.
There it was. “I pay the rent.” Like a stamp, he could press down on any argument to flatten it.
I opened my mouth to say something, but I was so tired and so ashamed. And the baby was pressing on my ribs as if she were trying to climb out through my throat.
So I said nothing. I gathered my pregnancy pillow, slid my feet into flip-flops, and walked out.
Three flights of stairs. In August. At three in the morning.
I opened my mouth to say something.
I honestly thought he’d apologize the following morning. I pictured him looking sheepish over coffee, maybe with a bagel, saying he’d been an idiot, that he was stressed about the baby too.
Instead, at 6:34 a.m., my phone buzzed against the dashboard.
“You can come back up now.”
That was it. Not “Sorry.” Not “How did you sleep?” Just permission, as if I were a dog he’d left in the yard.
I honestly thought he’d apologize.
***
It became our routine.
Every night, around 10 p.m., I’d carry my pillow down those three flights.
During that time, I learned which step creaked and which neighbor left for the airport at 4 a.m. I learned that a Honda Civic’s back seat is, in fact, not designed for a human being with a watermelon strapped to her front.
Then, around 6:30 a.m., my husband would send the text that unbanished me from the apartment.
It became our routine.
I told no one. Not my sister, not my best friend Kayla, not even Dr. Patel at my 36-week checkup, when she frowned at my blood pressure and asked if I was resting.
“I’m resting,” I lied.
My gynaecologist narrowed her eyes.
“Emma. I told you that sleep deprivation at this stage is dangerous. For both of you.”
I nodded and started reaching for my purse to pay for the consultation.
I told no one.
“Emma,” Dr. Patel didn’t move. “I mean it. If anything at home is making rest hard, anything, you tell me. That’s what I’m here for.”
For a second, my throat closed.
Then I tucked my hands under my thighs and changed the subject to swaddle brands.
***
At home, Ryan had started whistling in the mornings, making eggs, and kissing my forehead as if nothing were wrong, like his wife hadn’t spent the night folded into a Toyota like a lawn chair.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
***
Some nights, curled up in that back seat with the streetlight buzzing over me, I’d stare at the ceiling upholstery and ask myself if I was overreacting. Maybe pregnancy was making me dramatic. Maybe it was normal. Maybe every woman just quietly slept in her car for a few weeks, and no one talked about it.
Then, last Friday night, headlights I didn’t recognize swept across my windshield in the parking lot, and a silver SUV rolled to a stop right beside me.
Maybe it was normal.
