Call me Sloane. I’m 31, and my husband, Beckett, is 33. We’d been married four years, expecting our son, Rowan. The week before my due date, Beckett got secretive—smiling at his phone, locking it when I walked by, and repeating, “It’s handled.”
Friday morning, labor hit hard and fast. I called for him, expecting the hospital bag. Instead, he walked in dressed, cologne on, holding his navy duffel.
“A guys’ trip,” he said. “Non-refundable deposit. My mom can take you.”
I stared at him, shaking through contractions. He called me “dramatic,” promised he’d come back if it got serious, kissed my forehead, and left. I called my best friend, Maris, who sped me to the hospital. I was already six centimeters. My blood pressure dropped. They warned of an emergency C-section. Maris held my hand through it all.
Rowan was born screaming and perfect.
Then Beckett texted a photo from a bar—cocktails, neon lights—captioned, “Made it. Love you.”
Maris, who works in corporate compliance, documented everything: hospital bracelet, timestamps, texts. When my mother-in-law defended him, Maris calmly emailed HR with the facts. A nurse later told us the hospital also documented “possible abandonment” for follow-up.
Two weeks later, HR called me—then informed me they’d uncovered falsified travel expenses too. Beckett was fired. He said I “ruined his life.”
But I hadn’t lied, cheated, or walked out during labor.
I just stopped covering for him. The consequences weren’t revenge.
They were the truth.
