My Husband’s April Fools’ Joke Made Me Lose Our Baby.

There were texts from friends who’d heard what happened and messages from colleagues asking if I was okay. There was a voicemail from my boss telling me to take all the time I needed, and notifications from social media.

I opened Instagram with shaking hands. Trevor had posted the video.

He’d actually posted it. The caption read,

“Epic April Fool’s prank on my boy’s wife. Her reaction is priceless. We got her so good.”

The video showed everything: me coming home and me throwing the papers on the counter. It showed my face as Nathaniel laughed, my confusion, and my pain.

Then, horrifyingly, it showed me collapsing. It showed the blood and Nathaniel’s panic.

It showed Trevor still filming even as my life fell apart. The comments were already rolling in.

Some people thought it was hilarious, while some were concerned. Some were calling it fake or staged for views.

Nobody knew the truth yet. Nobody knew that our daughter had died while the camera was rolling.

I called the hospital’s patient advocate. I needed that video taken down and needed it gone before more people saw it.

I needed it gone before it spread further and before the worst moment of my life became entertainment for strangers. The advocate said she’d contact their legal team to see what could be done.

Then I called a lawyer—not for the video, but for divorce. Real divorce this time.

My mother tried to talk me out of it.

“You’re in shock,” she said.

“You’re grieving. Don’t make any permanent decisions right now,” she advised.

But I’d never been more certain of anything in my life. My marriage was over the moment Nathaniel thought my pain was funny.

I spent 3 days in the hospital. Nathaniel tried to visit multiple times, but I refused to see him.

My mother and father took shifts sitting with me, making sure I was never alone. They were running interference with anyone who tried to get through.

Friends came and went, bringing flowers and cards with condolences that felt empty. What do you say when someone loses a baby to a prank gone wrong?

“Sorry for your loss. Sorry your husband’s an idiot. Sorry your life imploded on camera,” it all felt insufficient.

There were no right words. Everyone knew it, and everyone felt the wrongness of the situation.

On the second day, a police officer came to my room. His name was Detective Reeves, and he wanted to ask me some questions about what happened.

He wasn’t asking about the miscarriage itself, but about Nathaniel’s actions. Had he known I was pregnant when he planned the prank?

“Yes,” I replied.

Had he known about my anxiety regarding the pregnancy?

“Yes,” I said, as I’d been seeing a therapist for it.

Had he ever done anything like this before? I thought about all the pranks over the years.

They were harmless ones mostly: plastic wrap on the toilet or a baked spider in the shower. But this was different.

This had crossed a line so far that the line wasn’t even visible anymore. The detective took notes and said he’d be in touch.

He didn’t say what charges might be filed, if any. I didn’t care about charges; I cared about the fact that my daughter was dead and nothing could bring her back.

After he left, I finally let myself cry, really cry. These weren’t the shocked tears from the hospital, but deep, wrenching sobs.

They felt like they were tearing me apart from the inside. My mother held me and cried, too.

We stayed like that for an hour. We were mourning Lily, mourning the future we’d never have, and mourning the innocence we’d lost.

The Pursuit of Justice

When I was discharged, I went to my parents’ house instead of home. I couldn’t go back to that kitchen.

I couldn’t see the spot where I’d collapsed or sleep in the bed I’d shared with Nathaniel. I couldn’t walk past the nursery with its yellow walls and empty crib.

My father had already gone to the house and packed me a bag with clothes, toiletries, and my laptop. He brought the ultrasound photos I’d kept on my nightstand.

He’d also taken down every picture of Nathaniel. I hadn’t asked him to do that, but I was grateful.

I couldn’t look at my husband’s face without seeing him laughing at my pain. The video had gone viral, reaching 2 million views in 3 days.

Trevor had finally taken it down after facing massive backlash, but it was too late. People had downloaded it, reposted it, and dissected every frame.

True crime YouTubers were making analysis videos. Reddit threads were arguing about whether Nathaniel could be charged with anything.

The court of public opinion had convicted him, but that didn’t change the fact that Lily was gone. That didn’t change the fact that I was empty; that didn’t change anything that mattered.

My lawyer called on day five. Her name was Diana Foster, and she had a reputation for being ruthless.

Good; I wanted ruthless. She’d filed for an emergency restraining order against Nathaniel, and it had been granted.

He wasn’t allowed within 500 feet of me. She’d also drafted divorce papers—real ones this time.

She wanted to include allegations of emotional abuse, intentional infliction of emotional distress, and negligence.

“Can we prove negligence?” I asked.

She paused.

“That’s complicated,” she said.

“But we can certainly make the argument that his actions directly led to your miscarriage. That his reckless disregard for your well-being during a vulnerable time caused irreparable harm,” she explained.

I signed the papers. My hand didn’t shake.

I felt nothing. That scared me more than anything.

I should feel angry, should feel sad, or should feel something, but there was just numbness. There was just the hollow space where Lily had been, where my marriage had been, and where my life had been.

My therapist said it was normal and that it was my brain protecting me from more pain than I could handle. She said eventually the feelings would come back and I’d have to process them.

I wasn’t sure I wanted them to come back. The numbness was easier.

Nathaniel tried to contact me through friends, through family, and through social media. Every message was some variation of an apology.

“I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Please talk to me. Please give me a chance to explain,” he wrote.

What was there to explain? He’d thought my devastation would be funny.

He’d thought humiliating me in front of my colleagues would make good content. He’d thought watching me believe my marriage was ending would be entertaining.

And our daughter had paid the price for his entertainment. There was nothing to explain, nothing that would make any of it okay.

On day eight, my best friend Alicia showed me something on her phone. She didn’t want to and tried to talk herself out of it, but ultimately decided I needed to know.

It was a Reddit post from 3 days before April 1st. The username was Nat the Great 88, Nathaniel’s gaming handle.

The post was titled, “Epic April Fool’s prank on pregnant wife, need advice.” He’d laid out the entire plan.

He detailed the fake divorce papers and having them served at her work. He mentioned the cruel reasons he’d include.