The Burden of Family Expectations During Pregnancy
— Mashun, Lena is hosting a bachelorette party this Saturday. We need to lend her a hand, even a little.
Kiril burst into the room like a small but vigorous whirlwind, charged with family plans and good intentions. His face radiated excitement — the exact expression Masha privately dubbed the “puppy-like enthusiasm of an organizer.” This look always appeared when a relative planned some grand event that demanded hustle, bustle, and selfless help from anyone nearby.
Slowly, with great effort, Masha turned her head. Every movement felt cumbersome, as if her body were filled not with blood and flesh but with heavy, viscous lead. The sixth month of pregnancy was nothing like glossy magazine descriptions. No magical glow or rush of energy—just a dull, aching pain in her back, occasional nausea, and a constant sensation of being an unwieldy airship struggling even to turn on the sofa. She lay still, searching for a position that would briefly let her forget her burdensome body.
Kiril, oblivious to her condition, continued to pour out his ideas with sparkling enthusiasm.
— We have to buy groceries, transport them, set tables… She can’t handle it alone, you know, she mustn’t overexert herself. It’s a special day, nerves, wedding preparations.
The phrase “mustn’t overexert” cut through Masha’s physical haze like an electric shock. Anger surged within her veins, burning and prickling. Supporting herself on her elbow, she sat up and then stood unsteadily. The world tilted, but she held onto Kiril’s radiant face to keep her balance.
— So, your sister can’t lift heavy things, but I can? Even though I’m pregnant? Are you serious?
Kiril’s glow vanished as if wiped away with a dirty rag. In its place came stunned, almost hurt bewilderment. He looked at her like she had suddenly started speaking a foreign tongue.
— Masha, why are you reacting like this? I’m not asking you to carry sacks of cement. Just to help out a bit. What’s the big deal?
His calm, patronizing tone only fueled her frustration. This was more than misunderstanding; it was a complete dismissal of her feelings and condition. He didn’t see her — only an inconvenient obstacle to the noble mission of aiding his sister’s party.
— Just help? — she repeated, voice cold and sharp. — Kiril, let’s call things by their true names. In your family, ‘just help’ means that I must run all morning to wholesale markets because they’re ‘cheaper,’ load boxes of juice and alcohol into the car, carry bags heavier than I am now, then spend the entire day standing, arranging all this on tables while your delicate Lena, who mustn’t overexert, flits around the loft and chats on the phone about nail polish colors. That’s what ‘just help’ entails. Or am I mistaken?
Her gaze didn’t waver, piercing Kiril for the first time during this conversation. He looked away, shrugged, trying to shake off the weight of her words.
— You’re exaggerating. I promise, I’ll help. We’ll do everything together.
— You? — Masha smiled bitterly. — Sure, you’ll help for twenty minutes. Then your uncle Kolya will call, and you’ll have to help him “check” the car. Then your brother will invite you “for five minutes” to discuss a gift for the parents. Afterwards, you’ll come back when everything is already done and proudly say: “Look how quickly we managed.” I know this script by heart, Kiril. I’ve played a background role in it for a year. But now, I can’t. Physically I can’t. And most importantly, I don’t want to.
— Masha, don’t make it complicated. I told you — I’ll help.
Kiril paced the room, searching for some footing in this suddenly hostile space. He stopped at the bookshelf, running a finger along a novel’s spine. His gesture revealed confusion — a man whose perfect plan collapsed due to an unexpected obstacle. His world was simple: there’s family, there’s a sister, sister needs help, wife is family too, so wife helps. Any deviation from this logic felt like a system failure.
— Okay, here’s another plan, — he turned around, wearing an expression of supreme condescension, as if explaining a basic concept to a child. — No wholesale trips. We’ll go to the supermarket near our home. I’ll take the largest cart. You just walk beside me and point at what to buy. I’ll load everything up, push the cart, and place it in the trunk. At the loft, I’ll unload and carry everything in. You won’t have to lift anything heavier than your phone. I’m not a monster — I understand. I’m not against you or our baby.
He emphasized the last sentence like a trump card to end the argument. Yet Masha looked at him as if he had just confirmed her worst fears.
— You really don’t get it, do you? — her tone was quiet but tense. — It’s not about lifting a box of water. It’s about everything else. Today is my only day off all week. The only day when I can sleep past the alarm, forgo makeup, and stop pretending to feel fine at work. I could just lie down, read a book, and eat apricots because I want to. But you propose I spend this day wandering supermarket aisles — even lightly loaded — making lists in my head, wondering if there are enough napkins, which cheese goes best with wine, whether we forgot the olives. That’s work, Kiril. Mental, organizational work. I don’t see why I should do it instead of Lena or her friends, who don’t have to find a comfortable sleeping position at night.
Her argument was flawless, and that infuriated Kiril. With no fault to find in her words, he attacked her motives. His face hardened, confusion gave way to dull irritation.
— Because we’re family! That’s why! My sister’s got a major event coming up, it matters to all of us. Why do you always react so negatively when it comes to my relatives? Maybe it’s not tiredness, maybe you just dislike my family. You find any excuse not to participate in their life.
An accusation designed to stir guilt, but Masha stayed firm. She straightened and her eyes darkened.
— I’m looking for excuses? Seriously? My belly, which now makes it hard to tie my shoelaces — not an excuse? Fine, I’ll remind you of others. Six months ago was your mother’s birthday. Remember? I was the only one setting the table for twenty. Twenty! I cut salads, made sandwiches, arranged plates because your poor Lena was tired after a salon appointment. And where were you, my helper? You were “helping” your dad fix a faucet in the bathroom. The faucet that never leaked — to this day. You just drank beer in a closed bathroom while I rushed around the kitchen. I don’t neglect your family, Kiril. I’m just tired of being their convenient, free-of-charge helper. The one who always fixes everything, covers every gap. And you don’t see that. Or you choose not to because it’s easier for you.
The mention of the mother’s birthday hung heavy in the air—undeniable fact. Kiril was silent, unable to argue since he remembered that day, the faucet, and the taste of beer. Feeling cornered, he did what he always does in these situations—retreat, regroup, and blame someone else.
He said no more. He didn’t slam the door or toss a cup. Quietly, he left, dignity injured but upright. Masha heard him open the fridge then the balcony door click shut. He went outside for a smoke and reflection — reflecting on how unfairly he’d been treated.
Masha remained seated on the sofa. Winning the argument brought no joy or relief. Her mouth tasted sour, backache intensified with a dull headache. Every discussion drained her to her limits, sucking out the little energy left. She leaned back on pillows and closed her eyes, fighting to regain her breath. All she wanted was silence. To be left alone, not asked, not demanded, not blamed. To simply be a pregnant woman, not a multi-tasking fixer of family issues.
After about ten minutes, when her pulse nearly returned to normal, the phone buzzed on the coffee table. She frowned, expecting another reprimanding message from Kiril from the kitchen. Instead, the screen showed “Lena.” Masha froze. Her heart skipped a heavy, anxious beat, knowing this call would bring trouble. Kiril wasn’t just out smoking — he was complaining.
Gathering courage, she answered without a word.
— Hi Masha, — chirped Lena’s syrupy voice. — Am I bothering you? Are you busy?
— I’m listening, Lena, — Masha responded coldly, skipping greetings.
There was silence. Lena clearly didn’t expect such a chilly reception.
— It’s about this… Kirusha called me upset. Saying you’re unwell. I’m really worried. Don’t overwork yourself. But I thought maybe you need to get out? Change scenery? Bachelorette parties aren’t work, they’re fun! Let’s sit and chat. You’re a girl, you know how important it is before the wedding.
The subtle combination of concern, light reproach, and an unspoken command was masterfully played. The final chord — ‘you’re a girl, you understand’ — appealed to some kind of female solidarity Masha did not feel for Lena at all.
Masha silently endured the passive-aggressive speech, her composure cracking like fragile ice.
— Lena, — she said slowly and clearly, every word icy. — Let me explain what ‘having fun’ means for me now. It’s lying on the couch with my feet up because they’re so swollen I can’t fit into my only pair of slip-on shoes. It’s eating half a kilo of cherries because they don’t make me nauseous. It’s sleeping three hours straight without waking from the baby dancing on my bladder. That’s my fun. Your fun is your problem. And the problem of your unmarried, unpregnant, energetic friends.
Silence fell on the line again, but this time it was stunned, not confused.
— But… it’s my bachelorette party, — Lena whimpered, her voice showing petulance. — I thought we were family. I was counting on you.
That was the last straw.
— Counting on what? Me to come and carry your bags? You’re a healthy young woman who ‘mustn’t exert’ before the party, and you think it’s okay to dump everything on your pregnant brother’s wife? Do you even hear yourself? I really can’t exert myself. Not because tomorrow I’m picking a cake, but because I’m seven months pregnant carrying a new human. Different levels of responsibility, don’t you think? So hire catering, ask your bridesmaids, or do it yourself. But leave me and my pregnancy alone.
Masha hung up before Lena could respond. The phone felt cold and alien in her hand. She tossed it on the couch and stared at the wall. The pure, icy rage left a ringing emptiness and crystal clarity. The bridge was burnt. Now she had only to wait for Kiril — no longer just her husband, but an angry brother whose sister had just been publicly humiliated.
She didn’t know how long she sat, staring into space — five, ten, thirty minutes. Time compressed into a dense, silent lump. She heard the front door lock turn slowly, like rusted. The door opened and closed quietly. Kiril’s footsteps were heavy and measured—not the gait of a returning husband, but a man performing an unpleasant yet necessary duty.
He entered the room and stood at the doorway. Masha didn’t turn, but felt his harsh, piercing gaze drilling her neck. He remained silent, a silence worse than any quarrel. It gave her space to realize the gravity of his offense. Finally, when the tension was palpable, he spoke in a flat, emotionless voice that sounded ominous.
— Call Lena right now and apologize.
This was not merely a command but an ultimatum — a point of no return he drew himself. Slowly, reluctantly, Masha faced him. His face was unfamiliar, rigid with clenched jaws and white veins at his temples. He was no longer the Kiril glowing with enthusiasm an hour ago. He was a clan representative demanding reparation for an insulted sister.
— Apologize? — she echoed flatly, lacking challenge, as if confirming a trivial detail. — For what exactly? For refusing to be a free loader and entertainer at her party? Or for valuing my unborn child’s health over her pre-wedding nerves? Please specify the wording—I want to be precise in my apologies.
Her cold, dissecting logic disrupted his fury. He stepped forward with a distorted face.
— You upset her! She called me in tears! She’s preparing for her wedding; she can’t be nervous, and you create… this! Over some bags I promised to carry? You just didn’t want her to have a good party! You hate my family!
He spat words filled with rage, pacing like a caged beast. Each accusation grew more absurd and detached from reality. Masha watched, no longer hurt or angry but with detached curiosity, like an entomologist observing an exotic insect. She saw not her husband but an immature man stomping his feet because his sister was hurt.
She waited until he ran out of breath and stopped, breathing heavily. Then she struck — quietly, precisely, and decisively.
— Kiril, sit down, — she said. Surprised by her tone, he lowered into the chair opposite.
— I just looked at you and, for the first time in a while, thought not about Lena, not about her bachelorette party, not about myself. I thought about what kind of father you will be.
He gave her a bewildered look, expecting continued arguments or reproaches — but not this.
— And I realized — you’ll be just like now. When our child is sick, and your mother needs to urgently take seedlings to the dacha, you’ll go. Because you can’t refuse your mother. When our child’s first kindergarten performance comes up, and your brother needs help in the garage, you’ll go to the garage. Because the brother needs help. You will teach our child your life’s main rule: your own needs, health, and family are secondary. What matters most is pleasing others who were present before us. You’re ready to risk my health for your sister’s whim. Tell me you won’t risk our child’s well-being for your uncle’s birthday? You can’t say it. You can’t promise. Because that’s who you are.
She paused. The room did not contain silence but emptiness — destructive void where their family once existed. Kiril sat, crushed. He could not reply because she wasn’t blaming, merely stating facts. She passed verdict using cold analysis. And he knew she was right.
Masha turned toward the window. The quarrel was over, everything ended. He still sat in the room but was absent to her — just a stranger, a weak man, father of her unborn child, whom she would never fully trust again.