“Nick, where are my maternity clothes?”
He barely looked up.
“I took them to Tara’s place.”
I stared at him.
“Tara? Your sister?”
“Obviously.”
“Why would you take my clothes to her?”
He continued preparing his lunch.
“She’s pregnant, Anna. Her boyfriend left, and she’s struggling financially. I figured she could use them.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
His sister was twenty-six weeks pregnant.
I was thirty-four weeks along.
I still had approximately six weeks before my due date, followed by months when I would need nursing-friendly clothing.
“Nick, I told her she could have some of my things after I finished using them.”
He shrugged.
“You’re almost done anyway.”
I looked down at the maternity scrubs I was wearing.
They were among the few things remaining because I’d been wearing them when he emptied the closet.
“What exactly am I supposed to wear to work on Monday?”
“You’ll figure something out.”
That answer hurt more than I expected.
He wasn’t confused.
He hadn’t accidentally donated the wrong bag.
He knew exactly what he’d taken.
And he didn’t care enough to understand why I needed it back.
“Call Tara,” I said. “Tell her there was a mistake.”
He sighed.
“I’m not humiliating my sister over some clothes.”
“So humiliating your pregnant wife is acceptable?”
“Anna, you’re exhausted. You’re making this bigger than it needs to be.”
I stared at him.
Four years earlier, I’d married a man who used to warm my car on freezing mornings and bring dinner when my hospital shifts ran late.
Now that same man was telling me I was unreasonable for wanting my own clothes.
I went upstairs and photographed the empty closet.
Then I sent Tara a message.
*Nick gave you my maternity wardrobe without asking me. I still need those clothes. Please don’t unpack or use anything until we sort this out.*
She didn’t answer immediately.
Eleven minutes later, her reply appeared.
*You need to discuss this with Nick.*
I called her.
She ignored the call.
Something felt wrong.
Tara and I had always gotten along reasonably well. I’d even promised to help her with baby supplies after Nora arrived.
Why was she refusing to return my belongings?
I opened Facebook.
Then I checked Tara’s Marketplace listings.
My stomach dropped.
There was my navy maternity dress.
My cardigan.
My nursing pajamas.
And my beautiful sage-green dress.
The green dress still had its original tags.
Tara had advertised it for $85.
Underneath the listing was one word.
**SOLD.**
I stared at the screen.
My sister-in-law wasn’t simply borrowing the clothes.
She was selling them.
I took screenshots of everything and marched downstairs.
“Nick, your sister is selling my maternity clothes.”
He glanced at my phone.
“Maybe some of them don’t fit.”
“They fit me!”
“Why are you making everything about yourself?”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Then he turned up the television volume.
That was the moment I realized reasoning with him wasn’t going to work.
At 7:18 that evening, I called his mother.
Elaine Keller was sixty-four, a retired schoolteacher, and one of the few people in Nick’s family who had always treated me with genuine kindness.
