When I announced my pregnancy, my mother-in-law said, “get rid of it.”

“You’re mourning the man you thought you married and discovering he’s someone different under pressure.” She helped me understand that Thomas’ inability to stand up to his mother wasn’t a flaw I could have fixed with patience or love.

This is who he is. His cruelty revealed his true character, not a temporary lapse. People show you who they are in crisis, and he showed you clearly.

The sessions became a place where I could separate the relationship I thought I had from the reality of what it actually was. You loved the version of Thomas who existed when his mother wasn’t involved, when there was no real test of his loyalty, but that version wasn’t complete.

The man who suggested aborting your healthy baby because his mother demanded it—that’s also him. That’s the real him.

Esther never let me minimize what happened or make excuses for his behavior. He chose his mother’s prejudice over your child’s life. That is not something you caused or could have prevented; that’s his choice, and it tells you everything you need to know.

By the end of the second week I was sleeping better and eating regularly again. I was starting to accept that the marriage ending wasn’t my failure; it was his.

A Circle of Support

Roman asked me at Sunday dinner if he could come to my next ultrasound appointment. “I want to see the baby on the screen. I want to see my niece or nephew moving around,” he said.

Mom and Dad exchanged a look, and I realized they were tearing up. Of course you can come. I would love that.

The 20-week ultrasound was scheduled for the following Tuesday and Roman took the morning off from his job at the grocery store. He sat in the chair next to the exam table, leaning forward to see the monitor.

His whole face lit up with excitement. The technician smiled at him while she moved the wand across my belly.

“There’s the baby. You can see the head here and the body and look, the baby’s moving,” she said.

Roman gasped like he had seen something magical. The baby kicked on screen and he grabbed my hand.

“Did you see that? The baby kicked!” he asked.

He asked a million questions. “What’s that part? Is that the heart? How big is the baby now? Can the baby hear us?” he said.

The technician answered each one patiently, showing him different angles and explaining what each measurement meant. “Can I have copies of the pictures? I want to keep them in my wallet,” he asked.

She printed out extra images and Roman held them carefully, studying each one like it was precious art. “I’m going to be the best uncle,” he told the baby through my belly. “I’m going to teach you everything.”

The technician wiped her eyes and I realized she was crying. “Sorry,” she said, “that was just really sweet.”

Watching Roman’s pure joy, his genuine excitement about being part of this baby’s life, I realized this was what family support actually looked like. Not demands and threats and coercion—just love.

The certified letter arrived at my parents’ house six days after the restraining order was issued. Mom brought it up to my room with a worried expression.

“It’s from Margaret,” she said.

I opened it carefully, already knowing this was a violation. Inside were 20 pages of printed articles about genetic testing, termination procedures, and prenatal screening.

Margaret had highlighted sections in yellow and written notes in the margins. “See, this proves genetic risks are hereditary. Testing is essential before committing to pregnancy. Late termination is medically justified in these cases,” she wrote.

None of the articles actually supported her claims. Most were from questionable websites, and the legitimate medical sources she had included directly contradicted her interpretation.

One article specifically stated that Down syndrome is not inherited through family lines. I took photos of every page and sent them to Gideon.

He called back within an hour. This is a clear restraining order violation.

She is not allowed to contact you in any way and she sent a certified letter directly to your address. I am adding this to our legal file and notifying the court immediately.

The judge reviewed the violation two days later and extended the restraining order for another year. “Miss Rossi, you were explicitly ordered to have no contact with the plaintiff. This letter constitutes direct contact and continued harassment,” the judge said.

“Any further violations will result in jail time. Do you understand?” I wasn’t in the courtroom, but Gideon told me Margaret tried to argue that she was just sharing important medical information.

The judge shut that down immediately. The restraining order is clear.

“No contact means no contact. Consider this your final warning,” the judge said.

The prenatal class met every Thursday evening in a conference room at the hospital with folding chairs arranged in a circle and a cheerful instructor named Sandra. I walked in nervous, the only person there alone, but Sandra welcomed me warmly and introduced me to the group.

There were six other couples and one other single mom. A guy named Cole looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

Sandra had us do icebreaker exercises and Cole ended up as my partner. “My ex-wife is pregnant,” he said quietly. “We’re getting divorced but I still want to be involved with the baby. It’s complicated.”

I understood complicated. We bonded immediately over navigating single parenthood preparation.

We swapped stories about lawyers and family drama and the weird loneliness of going through pregnancy without a partner. Cole was easy to talk to, with a self-deprecating sense of humor that made me laugh for the first time in weeks.

“At least we’re not dealing with this alone,” he said, gesturing at the class. “Even if we’re technically alone.”

The class covered everything from labor positions to newborn care to breastfeeding basics. Having Cole there as a friend made it less overwhelming.

We exchanged numbers after the second class and started texting regularly. We shared articles we found and asked each other questions about baby gear.

His presence became a steady comfort. He was someone who understood the complicated emotions of preparing for a baby while grieving a marriage.

“We’re going to be okay,” he said after the fourth class, walking me to my car. “We’re doing the work, learning what we need to know. Our kids are going to be fine.”

I believed him, or at least I wanted to.