Im pregnant, but my husband decided he didnt want the baby and kicked me out at eight months
Being eight months pregnant is when you can barely squeeze through any doorway sideways, when you have to sleep sitting up because lying down is impossible, and each step is a struggle. I was standing in the middle of our three-bedroom flat in Clapham, watching as Andrew tossed my things into two battered old suitcases.
Hurry up, he muttered without even looking back. Taxis on its way.
I couldn’t believe this was really happening. Only yesterday, wed had dinner together, hed stroked my bump and talked about names for a baby girl. But this morning, everything changed. Just like that. With a single phone call.
Andrew, can we at least talk about this… I started, but he straightened sharply, looking at me like I was a stranger.
No need. My minds made up. Claire called yesterday. Shes back.
Claire. His ex-wife. The one who left him a year ago for a Frenchman and moved to Marseille. The one he swore hed forgotten.
So what? My voice came out smaller than I intended. Shes back, so I have to leave? With your child in me?”
He kept shoving my jumpers into the suitcase, not bothering to separate the clean from the dirty.
This isnt up for debate, Emily, he said my name coming out like an afterthought. Ive thought about it. I have a history with Claire. Five years of marriage. With you it’s been a mistake.
A mistake. Thats what he called our year and a half. I sank onto the sofa not because I chose to, but because my legs simply gave way. The bump pressed heavily down, my little girl kicked inside, as if asking, Mummy, whats happening?
You told me you loved me, I whispered. That you wanted this baby.
Andrew finally turned round. There wasnt a trace of regret on his face just a cold finality.
I said lots of things. People change. Life changes.
He zipped up one suitcase, then the other. I watched him, desperate to glimpse any sign of the man I once knew. Where was the Andrew whod waited for me after work with flowers? Who took me to the theatre, cooked breakfast, read me Auden before bed?
And money? I asked quietly. The birth, hospital How am I supposed to live?
He dug in his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto the coffee table.
Theres two thousand pounds in here. Thatll do. Youll manage after that.
Two thousand pounds. For the birth, the first months with a newborn, rent. Was he joking?
You cant do this, I said, louder now. Im eight months pregnant! Do you even understand what that means? I cant be dragging suitcases, looking for a place to live…
You can,” he interrupted, so coldly it stunned me. Go stay with your mum. Or one of your friends. You had plenty.
I stood up slowly, one hand gripping the sofa back. I moved closer, wanting to meet his gaze, find something, anything, left of the man Id loved.
Andrew, thats your child. Our daughter. Do you understand what youre walking out on?
He turned away, staring out at the rain-specked October window. Outside, the London street was choked with traffic, city life beating on oblivious to my life falling to pieces.
I dont understand and Im not interested in trying, he breathed out. Claires back. She wants to give us another go. We talked. She forgave me. We start over.
And me?
And you He looked at me and I could see I simply didnt matter. Youll manage. Women always do.
The intercom buzzed. The taxi. Andrew opened the door and hauled my suitcases to the landing. I stood in the flat my flat, our home for over a year, the one where Id chosen the wallpaper, planted the balcony herbs, found out I was pregnant.
Emily, come on, he called from the hallway. Drivers not going to wait.
I grabbed my handbag with my passport and phone. Shrugged on my coat it barely closed over my bump. Walked past him to the lift, not meeting his eye. He pressed the button, and we stood in silence.
Youre a coward, I said quietly, as the lift doors slid open. A spineless coward.
He didnt answer. Just heaved the suitcases in and pressed the button for the ground floor. We descended, and I stared at those numbers above the doors: 4, 3, 2 With each floor, my old life grew further away.
The cabbie, an older man with kind eyes, helped load my bags in the boot.
Where to, love? he asked, glancing at the size of my stomach.
Where to? I didnt know. Mum lived in Basingstoke, crammed in a tiny flat with my teenage brother. No room there. Friends What friends? In my year and a half with Andrew, Id lost them all. He didnt like me meeting anyone, always said he only needed me around.
To Islington, I blurted. Richmond Avenue.
My old colleague Alice lived there. We hadnt seen each other in months, but I had no one else to turn to.
As we set off through Clapham towards central London, rain lashed the windows, the radio droned about Parliament. I watched the grey city slip by and wondered: what now? What do I do?
On your own? the cabbie asked after a while.
Sorry?
Are you planning to have the baby by yourself? No father?
I nodded, unable to speak. There was a lump in my throat, tears threatening but I held them in. I wasnt about to break down in front of a stranger.
Ah, well, he said. I left my wife once, when we had two little ones. Complete idiot, young and stupid. Now she wont let me near my grandkids, and rightly so, really.
He left it there, focusing on the road. We merged onto the North Circular, crawling through the traffic jam. London writhed in its usual chaos: buses honking, horns blaring, people everywhere.
Outside Alices building, I paid a twenty from Andrews envelope. The cabbie helped with my bags and gave me a pitying smile.
Youll manage, love, he said. Main thing is your baby comes healthy.
I nodded as he drove off. I was left standing in the drizzle with two suitcases and a bump the size of a pumpkin. I rang Alice. Once, twice, three times, but she didnt answer. I messaged her: Ali, Im outside your flat. Can I come up?
Three minutes passed. Then five. Id just decided she wouldnt reply when my phone buzzed.
Emily? Are you really there? Whats happened?
Its a long story. Can I come in?
Another minute.
Come up. Third floor, flat 8.
I heaved my cases to the door. One at a time. My bump ached, my back screamed, but I hauled them stubbornly up the stairs. No lift, just the musty, cat-smelling stairwell. Step by step, suitcase banging behind. I stopped halfway, heart thumping, breath short.
For the love of God, I thought, please not labour now. Not here.
Alice met me on the landing, having come down to help. The second she saw me, her face softened.
What are you doing dragging these?! She snatched a case from my hand. Youre pregnant! Dont be daft!
Inside, her flat was warm, filled with the smell of coffee and some kind of biscuit. Books everywhere, houseplants, little photo frames. Cosy.
I collapsed on her sofa and just wept. Not quietly, either sobbing, snotty, gasping for air. Alice sat beside me and put her arms round me, not asking a single thing, just stayed with me, gently rubbing my back.
He kicked me out, I blubbered. Just like that. His ex-wife came back… and he wanted me gone.
Alice said nothing. She got me water and tissues instead.
Drink, she ordered. And breathe. You cant get worked up wont help the baby.
I sipped slowly. The baby squirmed inside, unsettled. I put my hand on my bump, trying to calm her, and myself.
Can I stay a few days? I asked. Until I figure something out.
Alice gave me a long look.
Emily, you can stay here as long as you need. But honestly whats your plan?
I dont know, I whispered. I really dont.
It was growing dark outside. Londons lights were flickering on millions of windows, millions of lives. There I was: in someone elses flat, pregnant, alone, penniless, jobless, no clue what to do next.
What am I going to do? kept circling in my head.
But I had no answer.
Three weeks later, Sophie was born. In the early hours, as always with the big moments in my life. Contractions started at two. By six, I held a tiny, snuffling bundle with a scrunched red face.
Alice was with me throughout. She paced the corridor, fetched me water, squeezed my hand through the pain. Mum couldnt come my brother was down with glandular fever, and she couldnt leave him.
I lay in my hospital bed on the sixth floor, looking at my daughter. She dozed peacefully in her clear plastic cot by my side. So small, so defenceless. Just over three kilos, fifty-one centimetres. My baby.
And I knew: she was my responsibility now. Mine alone.
On the third day, a nurse poked her head in.
Bennett, youve got a visitor.
I assumed it was Alice. Or maybe Mum had somehow made it after all. But there, standing in the doorway, was Andrew.
He was holding a bunch of white roses. Expensive overcoat, shirt and tie, every inch the City man. As if popping in for a business deal, not to see his ex and newborn child.
Hi, he said, awkwardly.
I said nothing. Simply stared at him. Sophie shifted in her cot, starting to fuss.
May I come in? he asked.
Havent you already?
He entered, set the flowers by my bed. Looked at Sophie. For the briefest moment, his face softened.
A girl?
Yes.
Whats her name?
Sophie.
He nodded, hands dug into his coat pockets. We stood on either side of the cot in silence. Somewhere outside, someone laughed, a trolley rattled down the hall the world rolled on.
Why are you here? I finally said.
Andrew sighed.
Emily, I I wanted to see the baby. And talk to you.
Talk? I repeated. Go on, then.
He hesitated, rubbed his nose.
It didnt work out with Claire. She went back. Only a week after you left.
I let out a dry, humourless laugh.
And? Am I meant to be thrilled? Run into your arms?
No, I just I want to help. Financially. Newborns need things, formula…
We dont need your charity, I cut him off. Well manage.
Well manage. Where that certainty came from, Ill never know. Yet I meant it, solidly.
Andrew stepped closer.
Emily, dont be stupid. Youve no job, nowhere to live. How will you raise a baby like this?
Ill use my own money. Ill find a job.
What job? With a newborn on your hip? he raised his voice. Do you have any idea what youre up against?
Sophie began to cry. Loud, persistent. I lifted her, cuddled her. She settled instantly, snuggling into my shoulder.
I do, I said quietly. Better than anyone. You can go now.
I want to see the child, he pressed. I have rights.
Rights? I looked at him so coldly he stepped back. You lost all your rights when you threw me out at eight months pregnant. When you called us a mistake.
I was wrong
Save it. I didnt shout, but my voice was like steel. Just go. Sophie and I dont need you.
He stood there, mouth open. Then turned and left, without a goodbye. The white roses lay awkwardly on the side table perfect, pointless.
I sat, rocking Sophie in my arms. Tears dripped onto her pink hat and I couldn’t stop them. Everything I’d bottled up for weeks poured out.
Within the month, I found work remote copywriting for a small agency. The pay wasnt great, but it paid for a room in a shared flat up in Holloway and nappies, formula. Alice helped with Sophie when she could. Mum visited on weekends. We did whatever it took to get by.
And then, as things do life happened.
Id gone to the shop for baby formula, nappies, nappy cream. Carrying bags in one hand, pushing the buggy one-handed through the miserable November drizzle, icy wind lashing my face.
By the lights on Euston Road, I saw them.
Andrew and Claire. Under one umbrella, her laughter ringing as she tossed her head back, his arm tight round her shoulders. She wore a smart fur coat he still had that same overcoat hed worn to see us at the hospital.
They hadnt noticed me. They walked past, making for the Tube.
Something flared in me anger, hurt, everything at once.
I took a few steps after them and called out, Andrew!
He turned, face paling. Claire looked at him, then at the buggy, then me understanding in seconds.
And whos this? she asked him coolly.
Claire, lets just he tried to move her on, but she broke away.
Who is she? She was louder now.
I rolled the buggy closer. Sophie lay sleeping, wrapped in her pink snowsuit.
Im Emily, I said. And this is your not-so-little secret he tried to get rid of.
Claire went white. She stared at Andrew.
You said there was no one, she said. That you were waiting for me.
Its not what it looks like, Claire. This means nothing…
Nothing? I snapped. A year and a half nothing? A child nothing?
People were starting to stare. I didnt care.
He threw me out at eight months pregnant when you rang. Gave me two grand and kicked me out. Thats the sort of man youre getting.
She stared at him, horrified.
You you really did that?
It wasnt like He tried to protest, but shed already turned and walked away.
Andrew chased after her. I stood in the falling snow, Sophie beginning to stir and cry.
There, sweetheart, I whispered, rocking the buggy. Shh. Were tougher than all of them.
I wheeled Sophie home, not in their direction, but mine to Holloway, to our little room in the flatshare. To the new life I was slowly building, one piece at a time.
Six months later, I landed a better job an editor for an online magazine. More money, flexible hours. Mum had Sophie for a fortnight so I could work, Alice came by each evening.
I learned to live without Andrew. Without his money, his support, or his presence. It was possible. Hard, but possible.
Sophie grew cheerful and sturdy. She had my eyes, my stubborn streak. She never gave up on rolling over, didnt fuss when teething started. She battled on.
Just like me.
As for Andrew I saw him once, by chance, in a shopping centre. Alone, looking older, his gaze flat. We caught each others eye through the crowds, and I felt nothing. No pain, no rage, no sympathy. Just emptiness.
I took Sophies hand she was walking now, my one-year-old girl and we walked away. Towards our own life. Our own future.
Without him.
