When I realized my husband, Evan, wasn’t paying attention, I knew my birth experience would be a disaster.

 

When I realized my husband, Evan, wasn’t paying attention, I knew my birth experience would be a disaster.

 But as I lay in labor, hurting and ignored, I made a promise to myself: neither he nor his mom would ever have power over me again.

I never imagined my life would turn out this way. Five years ago, I thought I had it all figured out. I worked in marketing, had a small but comfortable apartment, and was completely in love with Evan.

We met at a friend’s housewarming — one of those casual nights that unexpectedly change your life. We hit it off right away. He was warm, funny, and thoughtful. We’ve now been together for six years, married for two.

Things changed when I found out I was expecting our first child, a little girl we named Emma. Just thinking about her still makes my heart flutter. It all seemed perfect at first — like we were living in a dream. But thinking back, I should’ve noticed the warning signs before Emma arrived.

When Evan heard the news, he suddenly became fixated on having a home birth. His usual calm, supportive personality shifted. I remember that first conversation clearly.

We were on the couch, and I was still in shock about being pregnant when he said, “We should plan for a home birth.”

I laughed. “Evan, I just found out I’m pregnant. Can we slow down a bit?”

But he was serious. “It’s healthier, less interference from doctors.”

“I don’t know... What if something bad happens?” I asked, my stomach tightening.

“Nothing will. We’ll hire a doula, and my mom can help,” he said in a tone that made it sound final.

I let it go, thinking we had time. I was only six weeks along. But he wouldn’t drop it.

Every visit to the doctor, every baby-related talk — it always circled back to the home birth idea.

At appointments, Evan would speak for me. When the OB asked about my preferences, he jumped in: “We’re planning a home birth,” grinning like we were a team.

But we weren’t.

“Can you please stop doing that?” I snapped after one visit. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“You don’t need to. This is what’s right.”

Right for who? I thought. I was the one carrying this child. That’s when the fights began. Small at first, then more frequent. And then his mom, Linda, got involved.

She cornered me one afternoon with a sweet smile and a determined tone. “You know, Anna, all the women in our family gave birth at home. It’s our tradition.”

“I’ve considered it,” I said, trying to stay polite. “But I worry about what might go wrong.”

“Oh, nothing will,” she waved it off. “You’ll have help. You’re just overthinking it.”

I wanted to scream. Why wasn’t anyone listening to me? By the time I hit 36 weeks, I was drained — body and mind.

Evan and Linda acted like I was being dramatic. I told him I’d go to the hospital alone if needed. He ignored me.

Then came the doula meeting. She was pushy too, backing Evan’s every word. I sat there quietly, feeling alone.

At 39 weeks, labor started. I was scared. “Please, Evan,” I begged. “Take me to the hospital. I don’t feel safe here.”

But he and Linda ignored me. Instead of helping, they called the doula.

The pain was unbearable. I went through three days of labor — three days — with 22 hours of intense pain at the end. It was torture.

I cried through it all. Something felt wrong, but no one seemed to care. Evan and Linda barely checked on me. They popped in and out like nothing serious was happening.

The doula — who I never wanted — told me, “If pushing lasts over 24 hours, we’ll have to go to the hospital.” I lay there, clutching my belly, thinking, I can’t do this. I just want it to end.

I was terrified of pushing for two more hours. But I was just as afraid of giving birth in that cold, uncaring space. I just wanted it over with.

When Emma was finally born, it wasn’t magical. I didn’t cry with joy. I cried because it was finally done.

I couldn’t even hold her at first — I was too weak. My body felt broken.

At my first postpartum check-up, my doctor was shocked. “Anna, I don’t understand. We had agreed on a hospital birth. What changed?”

“Evan happened,” I said. “He and his mom pushed me into this. I didn’t want it.”

She looked upset. “You’re lucky. This could’ve gone very badly.”

That stuck with me. I survived something dangerous just to please others.

Back home, I faced Evan. “You ruined this for me,” I said through tears. “I’ll never get that moment back. I was scared the whole time — and it’s your fault.”

He didn’t even look up. “You’re overreacting. Women are strong. You should’ve just dealt with it.”

“Are you serious?” I snapped. “If we ever have another baby — and right now, I don’t want that — it’s not happening at home!”

He shrugged. “We’ll talk about it.”

That was the last straw. I was done being treated like a vessel by him and his pushy mom.

A few months later, I started pretending everything was fine. I told Evan maybe he was right. “I’ve been thinking... maybe home births are better after all.”

He seemed so pleased. I even smiled through family dinners and chatted with Linda about her birth stories. But inside, I was seething.

I had a plan.