I remember the day we found out. Two pink lines, shaky hands, and a sob that was half terror, half pure joy. He scooped me up, spinning me around our tiny living room, his laughter booming. “A baby!” he’d yelled, tears in his eyes. Our baby. It felt like our world had finally clicked into place. We’d talked about kids, of course, but now it was real. Tangible.
Nine months felt like an eternity and a blink. Every kick, every hiccup, every late-night craving was a shared adventure. We painted the nursery, picked out names, dreamt of futures. He was going to be an amazing dad, I just knew it. He had this gentle way with children, a patience I sometimes lacked. Our love story wasn’t perfect, no one’s is, but it was ours. Deep, fierce, sometimes messy.
Then came the end of the season. The playoffs. His team, his team, was in the championship. He’d been a fan since he was a boy, practically lived and breathed their every game. I understood. I really did. It was part of who he was. Our due date, however, fell perilously close to the big final. He joked about it, of course. “Hope our little one doesn’t mind waiting until after the final whistle,” he’d say, a wide grin plastered on his face. I’d laugh, a little forced, and swat his arm. He wouldn’t actually… right?
A man driving a car | Source: Pexels
A week before my due date, the contractions started. Sporadic at first, just an uncomfortable tightening. I called him. He was already at the stadium, buzzing with pre-game excitement. “Just practice ones, babe,” he’d said, trying to sound reassuring, but I could hear the roar of the crowd in the background. “Call me if they get serious.” I hung up, a cold knot forming in my stomach. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.
They got serious. Oh, they got serious.
My water broke with a gush that soaked through my nightdress. It was 2 AM. The championship game was due to start in a few hours, across the city. Panic set in. This wasn’t a drill. This was it.
I called him. My voice was shaky, urgent. “It’s happening. Really happening.”
There was a long silence on the other end. Then, a sigh. Not a sigh of concern, but of… inconvenience?
“Are you sure?” he asked. My jaw dropped. ARE YOU SURE?! I was standing in a puddle, contractions gripping me like a vice.
“YES, I’M SURE!” I screamed, the pain radiating through my spine.
Another pause. Then, a quiet, almost pleading tone. “Look, I’m already here. The traffic is insane. The gates are about to close. Can you… can you hold on for a bit? Just a few hours? I promise I’ll come straight after.”
A hospital hallway | Source: Pexels
My breath hitched. My world stopped spinning. The pain of the contraction was nothing compared to the agony of those words. Hold on? Hold on while our baby fought to enter the world? Hold on while he watched a game?
He chose a football game over our baby’s birth.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The anger that surged through me was primal, an inferno consuming every last flicker of love I thought I felt for him.
“NO!” I roared into the phone. “DON’T EVEN BOTHER!” I hung up before he could respond, my hand trembling so hard I almost dropped the phone.
I called my sister. She was there in twenty minutes, her face a mask of furious concern as she helped me out the door. The drive to the hospital was a blur of pain, tears, and a simmering rage that threatened to consume me. Every breath was a silent scream of betrayal. Every push was for my baby, yes, but also a defiant act against the man who wasn’t there.
Hours later, after what felt like an eternity of pushing, of agony, of sweat and tears, a tiny, perfect scream filled the room. Our baby. Our beautiful, innocent baby was here. I held them close, skin-to-skin, sobbing uncontrollably. The love was so immense it felt like my heart would burst. But in that moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, there was also a deep, aching chasm where he should have been. My sister watched, her eyes glistening, holding my hand. Where was he?
Tears in a woman’s eyes | Source: Midjourney
The hospital room felt vast and empty. Visitors came and went. Friends, family, co-workers. Everyone but him. No calls. No texts. Not a single word. My sister had tried calling him, but got no answer. His phone went straight to voicemail. Days turned into a week. My anger slowly, agonizingly, morphed into confusion, then fear. Was he okay? Had something happened? Even if he was the biggest coward on earth, wouldn’t he at least try to explain?
I discharged myself and our baby, my heart a lead weight in my chest. I called his parents. They hadn’t heard from him since before the game. His friends were equally clueless. It was like he’d vanished. My mind raced, jumping to the worst conclusions. Was he hurt? Had he run away? Every scenario was worse than the last. I started calling local hospitals, police stations. Nothing.
One afternoon, a week and a half after our baby was born, I was trying to soothe a crying infant, exhaustion heavy on my eyelids. The doorbell rang. I opened it to find two police officers standing on my porch, their faces grim. My blood ran cold.
“Are you…?” one of them began, his voice hesitant. I nodded, clutching our baby tighter.
He spoke slowly, carefully, but the words were a hammer blow.
They found his car. Not at the stadium parking lot. Not on the main highway. It was on a rural road, miles away from the city, crashed into a ravine. It had happened early that morning, the same morning our baby was born.
He hadn’t chosen the football game.
A couple holding hands | Source: Pexels
He had been on his way. He was on his way, speeding, desperate to make it to me, to us, after the game was over. He must have fallen asleep at the wheel, or swerved to avoid something, or simply lost control. The roads had been slick that night.
He never even made it to the stadium.
The game was just an excuse, a place he was supposed to be, a lie he told because he was too ashamed to admit… what? That he was already too tired? That he’d had too much to drink celebrating the game early? That he was running late and panicked? I will never know.
My last words to him weren’t “I love you,” or “Our baby is coming.” They were a scream of pure, incandescent rage. “DON’T EVEN BOTHER!”
And he hadn’t. He couldn’t.
My life transformed, alright. Not just into motherhood, but into a kaleidoscope of unbearable grief and agonizing regret. Every time I look at our beautiful baby’s face, I see him. I see the joy we shared, the future we planned. And I hear my own angry voice, echoing in the silence of what will always be a devastating, heartbreaking mystery. He chose a football game… but what truly happened that night took away every other choice we ever had.
