Chapter 2: Nausea and Resentment

My disgust for Natalie started creeping in as early as the first month of her pregnancy.

She acted like she was deathly ill or something.

She’d curl up on the couch under my old Ohio State hoodie, eyes glassy, remote forgotten on the floor. Sometimes she’d hug her stomach, bracing for impact, barely able to keep her head up. From the kitchen, I’d hear her retching, and I’d just roll my eyes—seriously, could she not hold it together?

Everyone else would be halfway through dinner and suddenly she’d clap her hand over her mouth and bolt to the bathroom, slamming the door. The gagging echoed through the house, loud enough to kill my appetite every single time.

At first, I tried to get it. Pregnancy comes with morning sickness, right? I figured if I just kept my head down and waited, it’d blow over like a bad cold.

I told myself I’d be patient. I’d seen those commercials with glowing moms and pastel nurseries. It had to be a phase. I tried to ignore it, convinced things would go back to normal soon enough.

But it didn’t blow over. If anything, it got worse—she kept throwing up for over a month, every day the same. I kept a can of Febreze by the door so the place wouldn’t reek like stomach acid.

She’d try to choke down saltines, ginger ale, all the old wives’ tales, but nothing helped. Some mornings, I’d wake up to the sound of her heaving in the bathroom. Even just standing up too fast would set her off.

I really don’t get it. It’s just pregnancy. Women have been doing this forever. She throws up all day long—who’s she putting on this show for?

At work, I’d vent to the guys during lunch. “Man, I swear, it’s like she’s auditioning for a daytime soap.” That got some laughs. Still, a little voice nagged—was I being too harsh? Was I missing something real? I brushed it off, blaming her for making a big deal out of nothing.