He started talking about freedom six months ago. Not freedom from me, not directly, but freedom for himself. Freedom to travel alone, freedom to pursue passions I didn’t share, freedom from… well, from the life we’d built. From the routine. From the subtle expectations that come with marriage. I saw it in his eyes first – a distant look, a flicker of something wild and untamed that had slowly gone out since we’d settled down. He wanted it back.
I tried to understand. I really did. Maybe he’s just going through a phase, a mid-life crisis without the mid-life part yet. But the distance grew, a chasm opening up between us that no amount of late-night talks or desperate hugs could bridge. He’d come home, eat dinner, watch TV, and then retreat into his world. A ghost in our own home. My heart ached with a dull, persistent pain, a constant throb of fear that I was losing him, bit by bit, to this invisible force he called “freedom.” I felt myself shrinking, becoming smaller, less vibrant, trying desperately to be less of a burden, less of a reason for him to want to escape.
Our intimacy faded. His touch became rare, almost accidental. The passion that had once burned so brightly between us was now a smoldering ember, threatening to extinguish completely. I spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had done wrong, what I could do differently. Was I not enough? Was our love not strong enough to weather this storm? He insisted it wasn’t about me, but about him. His need to rediscover himself. To be unburdened. To be free.
Barbra Streisand lying in a bed next to Robert Redford in “The Way We Were” in 1973. | Source: Getty Images
Then came the morning I found myself hunched over the toilet, a sickness that wasn’t just heartbreak. A suspicion that turned my blood to ice and fire simultaneously. The test stick in my trembling hand. Two lines. Two bright, undeniable lines. My world, already teetering on the edge of collapse, officially imploded. A baby. Our baby. A new life. When he wanted to shed the old one. My God, the irony. This baby… this love… it had other plans for his freedom. And for mine.
Panic seized me. How could I tell him? How could I drop this bombshell when he was actively trying to disentangle himself from our shared life? He’d hate me. He’d feel even more trapped, resentful. I imagined his face, contorted in anger, in despair. The thought alone was a physical blow. But how could I not tell him? This wasn’t just about us anymore. This was about a tiny, fragile life growing inside me. So, with a heart hammering against my ribs, I confessed everything, the words tumbling out in a shaky whisper.
His reaction wasn’t what I braced for. No explosion. No anger. Just a profound silence that stretched on forever, broken only by my ragged breathing. Then, he looked at my face, a strange unreadable expression in his eyes. “Okay,” he said, his voice flat. “Okay. We’ll figure it out. We’ll make this work.” No warmth. No joy. Just a grim resolve. I wanted more, but I clung to those words as if they were a lifeline in a raging storm. He said he’d make it work. He didn’t leave. He didn’t leave!
And then, slowly, miraculously, he started to change. He began to touch my belly, tentatively at first, then with a growing tenderness. He started asking questions about doctor’s appointments, about names, about the nursery. He’d talk about “our baby,” about “our family.” He’d bring me craving-satisfying snacks, rub my aching back. The distant look in his eyes was replaced by a quiet focus. He was present. He was attentive. He was… happy? I started to believe. I dared to hope. This was our second chance, a miracle in the making. The baby wasn’t an impediment to his freedom; the baby was his freedom, the freedom to love unconditionally, to build something new, together.
Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford looking at each other during the filming of the movie in 1973. | Source: Getty Images
My love for him deepened, intertwined with the fierce, protective love growing for our unborn child. Every kick, every flutter, felt like a confirmation that we were meant to be. That this little one was a gift, bringing us closer than ever before. We were planning, dreaming. He talked about painting the nursery pale yellow, about baby-proofing the house, about taking paternity leave. My heart swelled with a joy I hadn’t known was possible after so much despair. We made it through. We’re stronger now.
I was nesting, intensely. One afternoon, while he was out, I decided to finally tackle his old desk, a relic he rarely touched. Dusting, sorting through old papers, letters. I found a hidden compartment, tucked away beneath a loose drawer panel. Oh, a secret stash, how quaint. I pulled it open, my fingers brushing against something small, plastic, and familiar. My breath hitched.
Inside, carefully arranged, were blister packs. My birth control pills. Not empty packs, not discarded ones. These were full packs, but… the pills. They were tiny, round candies. Sweeteners. Not the pills I had been taking. And then I saw the dates. The dates on the empty blisters were months old. Months before I even conceived. Months before he started talking about wanting freedom. Months before I even suspected I was pregnant. HE. SWAPPED. THEM.
The world spun. My stomach lurched, not with morning sickness, but with pure, unadulterated horror. His “freedom.” His “desire to rediscover himself.” It was all a monstrous lie. A performance. He didn’t want freedom from me. He wanted a baby. A permanent tether. A claim. And he had orchestrated it. He had systematically, cruelly, sabotaged my birth control, knowing I would conceive. His acceptance, his tenderness, his newfound joy – it was all a calculated performance, a twisted fulfillment of his plan. Not “love’s plans.” His.
Robert Redford and Barbra Streisand at the 42nd Chaplin Award Gala in New York City on April 27, 2015. | Source: Getty Images
I stared at the fake pills, then at my swollen belly, tears blurring my vision. The baby, the symbol of our renewed hope, was now a constant, living reminder of his profound, unforgivable betrayal. My husband wanted freedom, yes. But he wanted it on his own terms. He wanted a baby, and he didn’t care what he had to do to get it. And I, the woman who loved him, was just a pawn in his chilling, elaborate game.
