At six months pregnant, juggling cravings and a full-time job, I expected love and support. But instead, my husband Dan handed me a piggy bank with a note saying “SAVE UP” for maternity leave.
“Hey, babe!” he called as I waddled in. “How was work?”
“Like being a beached whale,” I groaned, kicking off my shoes.
Dan laughed, eyeing my shopping bag. “What’d you get?”
“A maternity dress that doesn’t make me feel like a sausage,” I said, pulling it out.
His expression shifted. “Whoa, big spender! You should start saving.”
“For what?” I asked, confused.
A pregnant woman standing by the window | Source: Midjourney
“For when you’re not working after the baby comes. You’ll still need to cover your half of the bills.”
I blinked, sure I misheard him. “Wait, you expect me to contribute the same while on maternity leave?”
“Exactly!” he said, beaming.
I felt like I was in a bizarre reality.
Later that night, I found the pink piggy bank on my nightstand with a Post-it: “START SAVING, MOMMY!”
“Dan?” I called. “What’s this?”
“It’s for your savings,” he grinned.
I decided if he wanted to play this game, I’d play and win. I tracked every penny spent on my pregnancy and created a spreadsheet titled “The True Cost of Growing a Human.”
“Hey, Dan,” I called one evening. “How much does it cost to pee 17 times in one night?”
He looked confused. “Uh, what?”
“Just estimating the water bill,” I replied sweetly.
As days passed, my list grew, including items like “3 a.m. existential crisis.” Finally, I printed a detailed invoice of pregnancy expenses.
When Dan came home, I handed him the invoice.
“Regina… what is this?” he asked.
“That’s your half of the pregnancy costs,” I said cheerfully.
His jaw dropped. “This can’t be right.”
“Oh, it is,” I assured him, including a line for “mental anguish caused by husband’s financial demands.”
Dan stared, then sighed. “I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?”
I nodded. “The biggest.”
Over the next weeks, I became a pregnancy accountant, logging every expense. Dan’s eyes widened as the total grew.
Finally, one morning, he raised his hands in surrender. “I get it. I really do.”
He started taking on more chores and accompanying me to doctor’s appointments.
One evening, as we relaxed, Dan cleared his throat. “I owe you a big apology.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“I was so focused on finances that I forgot what’s important. I’m sorry.”
I squeezed his hand. “From now on, we’re in this together. No more 50/50 nonsense.”
“So, can I tear up the invoice?”
I nodded, grinning. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We get to smash that piggy bank together.”
With great ceremony, we shattered the piggy bank. As we swept up the remnants, Dan smiled. “I think I learned an important lesson here.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Never underestimate a pregnant woman with Excel skills!”
I let him tear up the invoice, but we agreed he would cover all expenses during my maternity leave. That piggy bank now serves as a reminder that in marriage, just like in parenting, it’s about being a team.
