...XAVIER AMERY...
The pregnancy progressed, and with it, my marriage's troubles worsened significantly. Some told me this was depression, but I couldn't fathom why. If she was concerned about her figure, I could assist her in regaining her pre-pregnancy shape after our child was born.
I contemplated setting up a large home gym with a personal trainer for her and even paying for any necessary surgeries, such as breast augmentation post-breastfeeding, but things did not pan out as I hoped.
"I'm not breastfeeding. Who do you take me for?" she was more than offended and enraged.
"But darling, the doctor said it's better for the baby because it..." she cut me off mid-sentence, yelling for silence.
"Darling nothing. If you loved me, you'd understand, but of course... all you want is to ruin me so that later no one will look at me, plus you want me trapped here. I know that's what you desire, but it won't happen," I was dumbfounded.
"What? Tell me you're joking. Ruin you? Trap you?" I was stunned.
"I want to go back to work, and this child won't stop me, nor will you. I care little for what my breasts produce; it would be the end of my career. They would sag, and no one would hire me again. Do you know how many sit-ups and treatments I will need to make my abdomen flat again?" Was it all about this? And what about our child?
"Love, you'll be a mother, and you'll still be just as beautiful to me. Don't fret over trivialities. I'll love you just the same, my dear," I attempted to reason with her, having never been one for superficiality; her arguments lacked any solid foundation.
"I want to remain beautiful, but you'll replace me with another. Cursed be the day I let myself become pregnant; the sex wasn't even that good," she said disdainfully, leaving me speechless.
I went to work, spending more time at the office. Another complaint about my sexual performance, but this time from my wife. What a curse. I gave her love, understanding, and I was super open to discuss anything necessary, what more could I do?
My ego was shattered, dead and buried. I had been affectionate, showering her with kisses and caresses, doing everything she liked. So, were all those moans fake? I couldn't believe it. Things should not have been this way.
Besides the issues surrounding her figure and noticing her belly wasn't growing as much as it should, our relationship was dissolving. They say pregnancy hormones can cause significant mood swings, but she changed drastically, never to return to her former self. There were no good days.
When our child's birth was imminent, she adamantly refused a cesarean section, regardless of the risk to our child, claiming it would be "my fault." All I wanted was the well-being of my wife and child, why make everything more difficult?
It was a critical moment fraught with tension, but she ultimately told me a cesarean would ruin her life as a model and dashed her hopes of becoming an actress after recovery.
She was being selfish, pushing me to the edge of my patience. Finally, our child was born underweight because she hadn't eaten properly, and she wept upon rising from bed and seeing herself in the mirror, while I diligently cared for our baby since she wouldn't even look at him.
"Won't you feed him? Don't you want to hold him?" I asked, hoping for a change of heart.
"No, let me sleep. I already carried him for nine months; now it's your turn, or hire someone," I looked at our son and then at her with sorrow.
My family came to meet him and immediately sensed my profound sadness, a sentiment I couldn't conceal. My mother stayed with her and our child, allowing me to go home for a shower and a change of clothes. I needed to breathe, even if it was just for ten minutes.
When I returned to the room, my mother expressed her dissatisfaction with my wife's lack of affection towards our son.
"Xavier, here is the reason we doubted her becoming part of our family, but you wouldn't listen," she said seriously, visibly upset.
"I love her, mom. Maybe it's just depression," I tried to defend her.
"Depression? You're an intelligent man, and your wife lacks maternal instinct. I hope you do what's right," she warned and attempted to leave, but I caught her hand.
"Advise me, mother, I beseech you," I pleaded earnestly.
"Get a divorce and fight for sole custody of my grandson. How many more signs do you need to realize she's not *right* for you?"
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