It was almost time for my company retreat — a trip to the U.S. for a couple of weeks. Just a month away, and I couldn’t wait. It felt selfish to admit, even to myself, but I needed the break. Sometimes, being apart made me miss her more — or at least reminded me what it felt like to breathe without the weight of our rocky first year pressing down on me.
Our relationship had its moments — warm, loving, full of laughter — but they were often followed by tension, miscommunication, and patterns I didn’t understand. We were learning each other’s quirks, yes, but some things weren’t so easy to overlook. There were days when I wondered if I’d be happier alone — especially after feeling like nothing I did was ever enough.
She often compared me to her father — how he helped her mother with cooking, cleaning, everything around the house. And I got it. She wanted that kind of partnership. But sometimes it felt less like appreciation and more like expectation, I was just supposed to fill in her fathers shoes.
We had a conversation about it once — about household responsibilities, and how things couldn’t be exactly like they were in her childhood home. I told her that as long as she wasn’t working full time, most of the daily household duties would naturally fall on her — not because I didn’t want to help, but because I was already managing work, providing for us financially, and supporting my sick and elderly parents. I did help where I could — cooking, cleaning, running errands — but not nearly to the extent her father had. I wasn’t trying to avoid responsibility; I was just one person, stretched thin between work, family, and our shared life.
As my trip approached, I told her she could lean on my family while I was gone. She didn’t have a driver’s license yet, and I worried about her being alone. I wanted her to feel supported — even if I wasn’t there.
The morning after that conversation, she woke up feeling sick.
Not just tired — nauseous, shaky, off. Still, she pushed through. Went to class. Prepared lessons. Same thing the next day. And the next.
Then, one morning after breakfast, she went to wash up and stayed in the bathroom longer than usual. I called out, asking if she was okay — no answer. A few seconds later, she let out a soft cry — not quite a sob, not quite a scream.
I rushed over.
She came out with tears in her eyes and a pregnancy test clutched in her hand.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
That should have been joyful news. Should have been exciting. Instead, it hit me like a punch to the gut.
Here I was, days away from leaving for a trip I had secretly looked forward to — a short escape from the strain of our relationship — and now this.
I said, “Wow… really? That’s great!” Even as my stomach twisted inside. “Are you sure this test is accurate? Maybe we should get a few more, just to be sure.”
I ran to the pharmacy and bought every kind of test I could find. One by one, they confirmed it: she was pregnant.
We got the news just a couple of days before I was supposed to leave. Now more than ever, I urged her to lean on my family — to ask for help if she was feeling unwell, to not try to do everything on her own.
I boarded the plane with a knot in my chest, trying to convince myself that this might be the thing that changed everything. Maybe once the baby was here, things would improve between us. Maybe the act of building a family together would pull us closer.
Maybe.
While I was gone, she did the opposite of what I asked. Instead of turning to my family — who lived just minutes away — she avoided them completely. When she needed rides to and from the language center, she asked our partner from the language center to drive her, even though it meant depending on someone she barely knew.
When she was sick — really unwell — instead of reaching out to my mom or sister, she called her own mother, thousands of miles away. Someone who couldn’t actually help, only worry.
She was constantly nauseous. Some days, she bled. Her body was changing fast, and she seemed to be going through it mostly alone.
By the time I returned home, I knew it was time to see a doctor. We needed to check on the baby. We needed to find ways to ease her morning sickness and help her feel better. And honestly, we needed clarity — about the pregnancy, about us, about whatever future we were still trying to build together.
We walked into that clinic holding hands.
But I wasn’t sure if we were walking toward the same dream anymore.
BPD Chronicles 