He stared at the steps, then frowned at me.
At first, I thought my husband was joking.
“What?”
“My trip with the guys is tomorrow. If I hurt my back carrying you, the whole weekend’s ruined.”
I honestly couldn’t process what I was hearing.
“I’m pregnant,” I whispered. “I can’t even walk.”
“You should’ve been more careful,” he snapped. “I already paid for the trip. I’m not wasting it because you were careless!”
Then he walked inside, not to help me, but to pack.
I sat outside our house for two hours, crying.
The cold air cut straight through my sweater. My leg throbbed nonstop. Every few minutes, the baby kicked, and I’d put my hand over my stomach, praying my baby was okay.
Cars passed. Porch lights flicked on across the street. But nobody noticed me sitting there until my neighbor came home from church choir practice.
Mrs. Peterson stopped dead when she saw me.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
She hurried over as fast as her 72-year-old legs could carry her.
“What happened to you?!”
I broke down crying even harder as she helped me inch up every single step while muttering under her breath about “useless men.” By the time we got inside, Albert was upstairs zipping a duffel bag.
Mrs. Peterson looked at him with disgust.
Albert rolled his eyes, ignored her, and kept packing.
That’s when something inside me clicked.
That night, after Mrs. Peterson helped me settle into the downstairs bed, I called Albert’s grandfather, Walter.
“Well, hello there,” he said warmly. “How’s my favorite granddaughter doing?”
That did it.
I started sobbing so hard that I could barely breathe.
Walter listened while I explained everything. When I finished talking, there was a long pause. Then he sighed softly.
“I see. Don’t you worry, dear,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.”
His voice was calm, but somehow cold too.
My husband’s grandfather arrived the following afternoon, after Albert had left for his trip.
When I answered the door, Walter looked at me and said, “Hello, my dear. Now we can get to work.”
“What work?”
And he meant it.
Walter moved into the guest room that same day.
My husband’s grandfather cooked meals, helped me walk and shower safely, made sure I kept my leg elevated, and every morning he brought breakfast in bed.
Meanwhile, Albert barely checked in.
One text the first night, another the next afternoon.
No apology or concern. Mostly photos of fish and beer coolers.
Walter saw every message but never commented.
However, I noticed him getting quieter each day.
On the third morning, I woke up to hammering sounds downstairs.
When I made my way carefully into the hallway with my crutches, I found Walter replacing the front door locks.
He glanced over calmly. “Preparing.”
“For what?”
“For Albert’s return.”
I should’ve asked more questions. Instead, I just watched him install the final deadbolt with the focus of a man half his age. Then he stood up slowly and wiped his hands on a rag.
“There. That ought to do it.”
That evening, my husband returned. He had no idea what was waiting for him. Honestly, I was in the dark too.
I heard his SUV pull into the driveway just after lunch. Then came the rattling of the doorknob.
A pause.
More rattling.
“What the hell?!”
A second later, pounding shook the front door.
Walter looked up calmly from the newspaper he was reading.
“Showtime,” he muttered.
He walked to the door while I sat frozen on the couch.
The moment Walter opened the door, Albert stormed forward.
Then stopped.
“Grandpa?” he said. “What are you doing here? Who changed the locks?”
Walter leaned against the doorway, casually blocking Albert.
“Well, well, grandson,” he said. “You look relaxed, but not for long.”
Albert frowned and tried sidestepping Walter, who moved to block him.
