When Marcus finally came home after three grueling weeks of eighteen-hour days, he looked like a ghost. Pale, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes. But when he whispered, “It’s done, Tara. We fixed it,” I saw the first real smile in weeks. Within minutes, he was asleep. I promised myself one thing: I’d protect his rest.

The next afternoon, the doorbell rang. Both our parents stood there, arms full of food and paint swatches for the nursery. At first, I welcomed them in. But soon, the questions started. “Where’s Marcus?” my mom asked. “Still asleep,” I said softly. “At noon?” she frowned. “He has a pregnant wife. He should be up helping.” Marianne scoffed. “My son knows better. A real man doesn’t nap while his wife entertains guests.” She moved toward the stairs.

I stepped in front of her. My heart raced, but I stood firm. “You’re not waking him. He’s been saving an entire company for weeks while I handled everything else. He’s earned this.” Silence. Everyone stared like they couldn’t believe I meant it. Just then, the floor creaked. Marcus appeared at the top of the stairs, hair tousled, eyes heavy. He walked down, slipped his arm around me, and said, “My wife was protecting me — even from my own family.”

The room went still. No one had a comeback. Our parents left quietly, shame heavy in the air. The next day, they returned — this time with apologies and a white box wrapped in ribbon. Inside were two luxury pillows. “For better rest,” my mom said softly. Marianne nodded. “We didn’t take everything into account. We’re sorry.” That evening we all shared dinner. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt like healing had begun. Later, curled against Marcus, his hand on my belly, he whispered, “They may not always get it, love. But thanks to you, they know where we draw the line.”