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

He’d asked for feedback on making it more realistic, more devastating, and more likely to get a strong reaction for the video. The comments were overwhelmingly negative.

“Dude, don’t do this. She’s pregnant. This is cruel, not funny,” one person wrote.

“My sister had a miscarriage from stress. This is dangerous; you could seriously hurt her,” another added.

“Your wife is going to divorce you for real. This isn’t a prank; it’s abuse,” a third commented.

There were dozens of comments warning him, telling him this was a terrible idea, and begging him not to do it. And Nathaniel had responded to a few.

“You guys are being dramatic. She’ll be mad for like 5 minutes and then we’ll laugh about it. Women are tougher than you think; she can take a joke,” he had replied.

I read through the entire thread three times. He’d been warned by multiple people.

People had explicitly told him this could cause a medical emergency. Someone had specifically mentioned miscarriage, and he dismissed every single concern.

He’d done it anyway because he thought he knew better. He thought a good video was worth the risk.

He thought my pain would be entertaining enough to justify any potential consequences. I handed Alicia her phone back.

“Send that to my lawyer,” I said.

“She needs to see this,” I added.

Diana called me two hours later.

“This changes everything,” she said.

Her voice had an edge of excitement to it, the way lawyers get when they find the smoking gun.

“This shows premeditation. This shows he was explicitly warned about the potential medical consequences and chose to proceed anyway,” she noted.

“This isn’t just a prank gone wrong. This is willful negligence at minimum, possibly reckless endangerment. I can use this,” she said.

She filed an amended complaint, added more charges, and sent copies to the police and the media. The story exploded again.

The headlines read: Husband warned not to prank pregnant wife, does it anyway, causes miscarriage. It had everything people love to hate: a villain, a victim, and a tragedy that could have been prevented.

Nathaniel released a statement through his own lawyer.

“I never intended for anyone to get hurt. I deeply regret my actions and the consequences they caused. I’m seeking counseling and hope that someday Olivia can forgive me,” it said.

The statement felt like empty, meaningless words on paper from someone trying to save his reputation. The comments on his social media were brutal.

People were calling him a murderer, calling for him to be arrested, and calling for justice for Lily and for me. Some of it felt good and validating, but most of it just felt like noise.

A Final Goodbye

The funeral home called on day 12. They needed me to come in and make arrangements.

I hadn’t thought about this part. I hadn’t thought about the fact that I’d need to plan a funeral for a daughter I’d never gotten to hold.

My mother came with me. We sat in a small room with soft lighting and tissues on every surface.

A man with a gentle voice walked us through options: casket or cremation, service or no service. I couldn’t make decisions; I couldn’t think.

My mother squeezed my hand.

“We’ll do a small private service,” she told the funeral director.

“Just family, just us to say goodbye,” she said.

The service was on a gray morning that matched how I felt inside. It was just my parents, my brother, and my grandmother.

Nathaniel’s parents came, which surprised me. His mother hugged me and cried and apologized over and over.

She said she’d raised her son better than this. She said she didn’t understand how he could have done something so cruel.

She said she’d always love me even if her son and I couldn’t fix this. His father stood back, looking uncomfortable, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

I appreciated them being there; it wasn’t their fault their son was an idiot. We buried Lily in a cemetery on the north side of town.

There was a section for infants and children with small headstones with angels and teddy bears carved into them. Her headstone was simple: Lily Rose Brennan. Forever loved, forever missed.

The priest said some words about God’s plan and heaven and peace. I didn’t believe any of it.

There was no plan that included my daughter dying because of a prank. There was no peace in any of this; there was just loss and anger and the unfairness of it all.

We each placed a flower on the tiny casket before they lowered it into the ground. I couldn’t watch.

I turned away and my mother held me while I fell apart. Two weeks after the miscarriage, Nathaniel was arrested.

The charges were reckless endangerment and involuntary manslaughter. Diana called to tell me.

She said the Reddit post had been key evidence. She said the prosecutor was confident they could prove he’d acted with reckless disregard for my safety and well-being.

He was being held on $50,000 bail. I felt nothing; the numbness was still there protecting me.

Nathaniel’s family posted bail within hours. He was released with an ankle monitor and strict instructions not to contact me.

Not that he could anyway, as the restraining order was still active. The media attention was overwhelming.

News trucks camped outside my parents’ house, and reporters were calling my phone at all hours. Someone tracked down the hospital staff and tried to get them to comment on my condition.

Diana handled most of it, releasing statements on my behalf and declining interview requests. She threatened legal action against anyone who harassed me.

But some things got through. There were tabloid articles speculating about my marriage and think pieces about prank culture and its consequences.

There were op-eds about the dangers of doing anything for content. My tragedy had become a cultural conversation.

I started going to a support group for pregnancy loss. It met every Thursday evening in the basement of a church downtown.

The first time I went, I almost turned around and left. I didn’t want to sit in a circle and share my feelings with strangers.

I didn’t want to hear their stories of loss and grief. I didn’t want to be part of this club nobody wanted to join.

But I stayed. I sat in a metal folding chair and listened to other women talk about their babies.

They spoke about the futures that had been stolen and about the pain that never really went away. When it was my turn, I couldn’t speak, I just cried.

They understood. Nobody pushed, and nobody judged.

The Trial and the Truth

Nathaniel’s trial was scheduled for November, 6 months away. Diana said we needed to be prepared for a long fight.

She said his lawyers would argue that he couldn’t have known his prank would cause a medical emergency. They would argue that the miscarriage wasn’t his fault, just a tragic coincidence.

They would argue that you can’t charge someone with a crime for making a joke, even a terrible one. She was confident we’d win, but trials were unpredictable.

Juries were unpredictable, and we needed to be ready for any outcome. I told her I just wanted it over.

I wanted to never have to think about Nathaniel again. I wanted to move on with whatever was left of my life.

The divorce proceedings moved faster than the criminal trial. Nathaniel didn’t contest anything.

He didn’t fight for the house or the cars or any of our shared assets. His lawyer said he just wanted it done.

He wanted to give me whatever I needed to move forward. Diana was suspicious.

She said nobody gave up that easily without some ulterior motive. But I didn’t care about his motives.