“You’re being dramatic,” he scoffed, not even pausing to cut his spaghetti. “My mom worked up until the day she gave birth to me.”

I blinked.

He kept going. “You’re just lazy. Honestly, I think you just don’t want to work anymore. It’s not like you’re the first woman to be pregnant. People do it all the time. Don’t expect me to suddenly support everything.”

I sat there, fork frozen mid-air, the meatball on my plate rapidly cooling like my affection for him.

But instead of flipping the table and storming out, I smiled. “You’re right. I’ll push through.”

That smile? It was fake. Because the plan I came up with next? That was very real.

I didn’t take leave. I didn’t slow down. I ramped up.

The next morning, I was up at 6 a.m., cleaning the kitchen