So, I’m currently pregnant, about 6 months along, and my husband has been doing this thing every time we go to the doctor’s. I told him it bothers me, but he just brushed it off and said I’m overreacting. He thinks it’s hilarious and says he’s only “messing with me.”

He’ll drive me to the clinic, and when I’m about to get out of the car, he’ll grab my hand, look deeply into my eyes, and say something like, “Don’t embarrass us today, okay? Remember what we practiced.” Then he’ll wink, like it’s some kind of inside joke, and I’m left feeling small and uneasy.

The first time he did it, I was confused. Then he repeated it every visit, sometimes adding lines like, “You know the drill: act normal,” or “Please don’t cry like last time.” Except there was no last time. I never cried.

He just said it loud enough for the nurses or other patients to hear as they passed. I could see the judgment on their faces. One woman even looked at me with pity once. I tried to laugh it off, but inside it felt like a little crack forming in my heart each time.

I told him after our second appointment that I hated when he did that. He smiled, patted my head, and said, “You’re so sensitive lately. Hormones, right?” He made me doubt myself. Was I being too emotional? Was this really just a harmless joke? I started dreading our appointments, not because of the check-ups but because of his performance in the parking lot.

Last week, it got worse. As we pulled into the clinic lot, he whispered, “Remember what we talked about—no lying to the doctor this time.” He said it so convincingly that a man walking by actually did a double-take. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I stepped out of the car, holding back tears. I could see him smirking in the driver’s seat, satisfied with his little prank.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed replaying his words. I realized it wasn’t funny at all. It was mean. He wasn’t just teasing; he was undermining me, making me feel foolish and unstable in front of strangers. And worse, he didn’t care. When I tried to bring it up again, he rolled his eyes and told me I was “ruining the mood” of our pregnancy.

I didn’t know what to do. I considered talking to my mom, but she lives four hours away, and we aren’t super close. My friends all have their own problems, and I felt ashamed to admit my husband was treating me like this. I kept thinking: if he’s like this now, how will he act once the baby is here?

A few days later, we had another appointment. That morning, I decided I wouldn’t let him humiliate me again. I asked him not to come. He looked offended, like I had slapped him. He insisted he had to be there for “moral support,” but I stood firm. I told him I was meeting a friend afterward and needed some time alone. He hesitated, then agreed, though he left the room muttering about how “ungrateful” I was.

Driving alone to the clinic was a strange relief. I played my favorite songs, sang along, and felt a spark of freedom. At the appointment, the doctor noticed I seemed more relaxed. We laughed about the baby’s hiccups on the ultrasound. For the first time, I enjoyed a visit without the heavy cloud of my husband’s jokes.

After the appointment, I parked by the lake and called my childhood friend, Mira. We hadn’t spoken in months, but I needed someone. She listened quietly, then asked gently, “Has he always been like this?” I realized he had, in smaller ways. He’d “joked” about my clothes, my laugh, even my cooking. I always thought he was just teasing. But now, with a baby on the way, it didn’t feel safe or loving—it felt cruel.

Mira suggested I talk to someone neutral, like a counselor. I’d never considered therapy before, but I promised I’d think about it. When I got home that evening, my husband greeted me with forced cheer. He asked how it went, then cracked a joke about hoping I didn’t “say anything weird.” I told him firmly that I wouldn’t tolerate those jokes anymore. He raised his eyebrows like he couldn’t believe I was serious. Then he laughed, shrugged, and turned on the TV.

That night, I felt lonelier than ever. I wanted so badly for him to care, to see how much he was hurting me. But he didn’t. He saw my pain as entertainment.

A week later, Mira texted me the number of a therapist who specialized in prenatal and postpartum issues. I decided to call. At our first session, I broke down sobbing within minutes. The therapist told me I wasn’t overreacting; what I described was emotional abuse.

She explained how jokes that humiliate or belittle, especially repeatedly, are a form of control. My heart sank. I had hoped I was just being sensitive. But deep down, I knew she was right.

I kept going to therapy once a week. I didn’t tell my husband. I knew he’d mock me for it. As the weeks passed, I grew stronger. I started recognizing other ways he belittled me: the way he’d hide my phone “as a joke,” or correct me sharply in front of friends. Each time, he’d laugh it off. But it wasn’t funny.

One afternoon, about a month before my due date, I came home to find him with his friends in the living room. As I stepped in, he announced loudly, “Here’s the drama queen herself! Try not to cry today, honey.” His friends chuckled awkwardly. My face burned. But instead of shrinking, I stood up straight and said calmly, “Actually, I’d like you all to leave. This is my home too, and I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

There was a long silence. One of his friends stood up quickly, mumbled an apology, and left. Another followed. My husband stared at me, stunned. “What’s your problem?” he barked once they were gone. I told him I was done being his punchline. He yelled that I was ruining everything, that I was ungrateful for how much he “did” for me. But his words didn’t scare me like they used to.

I called Mira and asked if I could stay with her for a few days. She welcomed me with open arms. The next morning, I packed a bag while my husband was at work. I left him a note explaining that I needed space, and that we could talk when he was ready to treat me with respect. I took my prenatal vitamins, the baby’s ultrasound photos, and the tiny socks I’d bought last week. I felt heartbreak, but also a quiet strength.

At Mira’s place, I slept better than I had in months. She cooked for me, let me talk or sit in silence. Her kids rubbed my belly and asked funny questions about the baby. I realized how much I missed being around people who made me feel safe and loved.

Three days later, my husband showed up at Mira’s door. He looked disheveled and pale. He begged me to come home, said he’d “try to stop joking so much.” I asked him if he understood why his words hurt me. He hesitated, then said, “I guess you’re just sensitive.” I shook my head. He still didn’t get it.

I told him I’d only come home if he agreed to couple’s therapy. His face darkened. He told me therapy was for “crazy people,” that we didn’t need strangers poking into our marriage. That answer told me everything I needed to know. I said I’d stay at Mira’s until I decided what was best for me and the baby.

Over the next week, he called and texted nonstop, switching between apologies and insults. He said I was “overreacting,” then that I was “destroying our family.” I read each message with a sinking heart. My therapist reminded me that manipulation often comes in cycles—apologies followed by blame, kindness followed by cruelty. Seeing the pattern clearly helped me stay strong.

As my due date approached, I focused on preparing for the baby. Mira helped me set up a little crib in her guest room. Her husband offered to drive me to the hospital when the time came. I felt scared of the future, but also hopeful. I realized I deserved to bring my child into a world where love wasn’t conditional on how well I could take a joke.

The night my water broke, Mira rushed me to the hospital. Labor was long and exhausting, but when I held my daughter in my arms, everything else faded. She was tiny, with a shock of dark hair and the softest cry. I named her Lucia, meaning “light,” because she felt like the light at the end of a dark tunnel.

I texted my husband to tell him Lucia was born. He arrived at the hospital an hour later, carrying flowers. He looked at Lucia, then at me, and said softly, “I missed you.” For a moment, I thought maybe he’d changed. But then he added, “You know, it would’ve been easier if you’d just laughed at my jokes.”

I felt a cold clarity wash over me. I realized he wasn’t sorry for how he treated me—he was sorry he’d lost control. I told him kindly but firmly that I wanted to raise Lucia in a home where she’d never feel belittled. He scoffed, said I was overreacting, and walked out.

I filed for separation a week later. It wasn’t easy. He tried to convince me to come back, said he’d change. But each time we spoke, he blamed me for everything. My therapist helped me stay strong. Mira and my mom, who came down after Lucia’s birth, surrounded me with love.

In the months that followed, I focused on Lucia and healing. I found joy in the small things: her sleepy smiles, our morning cuddles, the way she grabbed my finger with surprising strength. I enrolled in a parenting class and met other moms who’d gone through tough relationships. Their stories made me feel less alone.

My husband eventually stopped calling every day. He still visited Lucia sometimes, but only under supervision. He tried his old jokes once, and I told him calmly that if he couldn’t respect me, he’d see us even less. He looked shocked. I think he finally realized I wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

One evening, as I rocked Lucia to sleep, I thought about how far I’d come. I remembered how small I’d felt outside the doctor’s office, how his words had made me question my worth. Now, holding my daughter, I knew I was stronger than I ever imagined. I wasn’t overreacting; I was standing up for myself and for her future.

Looking back, I wish I’d trusted my instincts sooner. But I’m proud I found the courage to leave. I learned that love should never come wrapped in humiliation, and that jokes that hurt you aren’t really jokes—they’re red flags. I also learned it’s okay to ask for help and lean on friends who truly care.

Today, Lucia is six months old, crawling across the living room, giggling at the dog Mira’s family adopted. I’ve moved into a small apartment nearby, close enough to visit Mira often. I’ve started working part-time from home and am saving up for a better place for us. Life isn’t perfect, but it feels real and peaceful.

If you’re reading this and find yourself in a similar situation, know you’re not alone. You deserve respect and kindness, not jokes at your expense. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. And if you need help, reach out. There are people who will stand by you, just like Mira stood by me.

Thank you for reading my story. If it touched you or reminded you of someone who needs to hear it, please like and share. You never know who might find the strength they need from seeing they’re not alone.