After a few months, we were spending every weekend at W’s house, which felt like my own. Steven had his own bedroom there. I did grocery shopping every weekend, cooked and cleaned, and otherwise played house. Tension arose when I realised that W and his unemployed housemate were scoffing down all Steven’s cereal and healthy veggies during the week. I’d spend half my salary on making sure that Steven ate well, and they just used it all. They never bought any food – before I came along, I think they lived on rice and cheap red wine. The house was a mess – I spent most Saturdays cleaning, with no effort being made to help me.

For months, I bristled with resentment, believing they should have been contributing as well, but now I realise I was stupid. They never asked me to cook and clean and look after them. I took it upon myself. I cleaned because I didn’t want to live in filth, I shopped because I didn’t want Steven to starve while he was there, and I cooked because I wanted to eat. And yes, I admit it – I loved it. I relished the role of Proper Mommy. I thought they would appreciate all I was doing. It turns out that they didn’t give a shit whether I turned up or not. Maybe that’s a bit harsh – they weren’t bad guys, just typical twenty-two-year-old party animals who wouldn’t know who Mr Min was if they found him eating their dinner. Who can blame them for that? I can’t blame W for any of it, I suppose. I just chose poorly, wanting him to be something he wasn’t.

He did everything I told him to do. I most definitely wore the pants in the relationship, so to speak. I felt safe that way. As long as he was under my control, I could make things work the way I needed them to. Yeah, I don’t need Dr Phil to tell me that’s a damn stupid idea. I walked around for months fantasising about the home and family we’d have. I budgeted and saved and planned our life together. The problem was, I was alone in doing so. W was just going along with whatever I said, telling me what I wanted to hear. I was doing all the work – all the decisions were mine and so, too, the responsibility. If you come right down to it, my nagging was the only thing that kept our relationship together. He was just along for the ride.

But wait! There’s more! And it makes me feel like such a bloody fool.

We decided to get married. Where was my mind? There was no proposal as such. No bended knee or romantic expressions of tender, undying love. (Damn it! When am I gonna get some of that! WAAAAAH!!)

No, what I got (lucky me) was, “Hey you wanna get married?” And right back to the Playstation. Do you know the worst of it? I said yes! Silly twit.

I truly have no-one to blame but myself.

My parents could not believe I’d actually want to marry the poor guy. They had a hard time adjusting to the fact that W and his long-winded boarding school stories were going to be around forever. So did I, come to think of it. Again, wrong person, wrong reasons, wrong everything. And I knew it was wrong. I knew it right from the start. But by now I’d got myself in so deep I couldn’t bear the thought of admitting I’d screwed up again. So I pressed on.

Even in the midst of my half-hearted, feeble wedding planning, I wasn’t happy. I honestly thought that this was the best I could do. I didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to be that way. I thought it was normal to feel claustrophobic and misunderstood and not heard. I believed that for a long time. How sad is that?

Nobody believed it would last. Not even my gigantic, family heirloom engagement ring could convince them otherwise. Everybody knew. They were probably taking bets.

And then – horrors! Those damn little pink lines on the home pregnancy test. Again. Goddamn. I don’t know how I do it. My body seems to crave babies – my uterus cooks them up with glee. I was on the pill, so heaven knows how it happened. Remind me not to try that again, please.

So, now there was a baby on the way – even more reason to make it work, no matter what.

I don’t know why I stayed. I have no clue why he stayed. Looking back, I know he didn’t really want the things I wanted. What he was thinking is anyone’s guess, actually. And to add insult to injury, I couldn’t get him excited about the baby at all. Not like I was. I gave him tons of pregnancy and baby magazines to read, but I doubt he ever picked one up.

Whenever I looked at that untouched pile of Your Pregnancy magazines next to the bed, my heart ached. They seemed to symbolise every wrong decision I’d ever made.

“Now you’re bringing another child into the world to suffer the consequences of your ridiculous choices!” they seemed to shout every time I passed. It hurt so badly.

For all his obliviousness, W agreed to be with me at the birth. The poor sap didn’t know what he was getting himself into. I tried to prepare him for it, speaking about it all the time, but he never asked any questions (at least, no intelligent ones that didn’t involve sound effects); he just listened until I shut up, and then didn’t think about it again until the next time I brought it up.

I was desperately unhappy, and the cracks were quickly starting to show. He’d make some crude, infantile joke about giving birth, completely missing the point, and I’d just stare at him, thinking, “What the hell are you doing here?”