Two days before Christmas, my doctor called with news that shattered me: I had tested positive for chlamydia. I was 36 weeks pregnant. The only possible source was my boyfriend of four years—the man I’d built a life with, the father of our toddler and soon-to-be newborn.
I didn’t want to ruin Christmas for our child, so I swallowed the betrayal and pretended everything was fine. But the stress was unbearable. My blood pressure spiked, and my water broke that evening.
At the hospital, the nurse asked routine questions, including whether I’d recently tested positive for an STD. I said yes. My boyfriend’s face changed instantly—he hadn’t known. When the nurse left, he asked, “So I have an STD?” As if he hadn’t given it to me.
I confronted him. He claimed he’d been out smoking with coworkers and ended up “fingering” one of their sisters because he was horny. He insisted it didn’t go further and that he came home and had sex with me instead. I didn’t believe him. But I was hours from giving birth, so I let it go—for the moment.
Later, I remembered that night. He’d come home unusually aroused. I’d made a mental note of it, sensing something was off. Now I knew why.
I gave birth carrying the weight of betrayal. Every touch from him made me feel sick. I tried to act normal, but inside I was crumbling. He gaslit me, minimized everything, and acted like I was the problem.
I stayed for a while—because of the kids, because of the history, because I was scared. But eventually, I realized I deserved better. My children deserved a mother who wasn’t silently suffering. And he didn’t deserve the family he so carelessly shattered.
