The ocean had always been his dream. Since childhood, he imagined himself standing by the waves, the salty air brushing his face, feeling free and unbothered by the world. For his wife, however, that dream became a cruel reminder of abandonment.

When she found out she was pregnant, she imagined they would face the journey together. She hoped he would hold her hand through every doctor’s visit, every sleepless night, and every flutter in her growing belly. But reality unfolded differently.

One afternoon, as she was preparing dinner, her husband announced his plans with an icy calmness that chilled her to the core.
“Why waste the money on tickets we already bought?” he said flatly. “You can go to my mother’s village and help her around the house while I go on vacation.”

She froze, unable to find words. Her heart pounded as she processed his meaning. He was going—without her. Six months pregnant, aching with every small bend, she dared not protest. She knew resistance would only lead to more arguments, and she lacked the strength for another fight.

A week later, he left for the sea, sending her instead to his mother’s small village deep in the countryside. The place was far from peaceful. The air smelled of soil and hard labor, not ocean breeze. The house was old, the bathroom stood behind the shed, and there was no hot water—only a rusty tap that ran cold even in the sun.

Her mother-in-law, a stern woman with sharp eyes and little patience, believed in discipline over comfort. Each morning she prepared a simple bowl of soup, placed it on the table, and said, “Work before you eat.”

The pregnant woman would nod silently, pick up her worn gloves, and head outside. She spent hours bent over the fields, digging in the dirt, pulling weeds, and carrying baskets heavier than she should have. Her back ached, her hands blistered, but she pressed on.

Every night, she dreamed of the sea—not because she had ever been there, but because her husband sent her pictures from the beach. In them, he smiled under the sun, holding a drink, the waves curling gently at his feet. The captions were brief and cold: “Like you said, I’m resting.”

She would stare at the photos until tears blurred her vision, wondering if he ever thought of her at all.

Days passed in the monotony of work and silence. Then, one afternoon, as she was digging up potatoes under the hot sun, she felt dizzy. The world began to tilt. She dropped her shovel and steadied herself, breathing hard. She called her husband, but he didn’t answer. She tried again—no response.

Her head throbbed, her vision dimmed, and her body trembled. She sank to her knees in the muddy soil, gasping for air. Her mother-in-law appeared at the garden gate, her tone sharp and dismissive.
“You’re not sick,” she said coldly. “You’re pregnant. The potatoes won’t dig themselves up.”

The young woman tried to stand, clutching her belly, but her strength failed her. The ground seemed to swallow her as she fell forward, her face hitting the dirt.

A neighbor, an elderly woman who had been hanging laundry nearby, saw everything. Dropping her basket, she ran toward the garden, shouting for help. “Someone call for a car! She’s fainted!”

Within moments, a few villagers rushed over. Together, they lifted the unconscious woman and carried her to the nearest car. The mother-in-law stood frozen, speechless, as they drove off in a cloud of dust.

At the hospital, doctors rushed to save both mother and child. The room filled with urgency—the sound of hurried footsteps, beeping monitors, and quiet commands. After what felt like hours, one of the doctors emerged, his expression grave but relieved.

“If they had waited any longer,” he said, “we wouldn’t have been able to save the baby.”

The woman remained in the hospital for several days, her body weak but her spirit slowly returning. She held her newborn in trembling arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. The tiny heartbeat against her chest reminded her that life—fragile as it is—had endured.

Word of what had happened spread quickly through the village. Neighbors whispered about the mother-in-law’s cruelty, how she had forced a pregnant woman to work in the fields, how she had turned a blind eye to suffering. Soon, no one spoke to the old woman anymore. People crossed the road when they saw her, unwilling to even look her way.

Days later, the husband returned from his seaside vacation. His skin was tan, his hair sun-bleached, his face carefree. But when he arrived home, the silence of the house unsettled him. His mother sat alone at the kitchen table, eyes empty, unable to meet his gaze.

“Where’s my wife?” he asked.

“She’s in the hospital,” she replied quietly.

He rushed there immediately, his heart hammering with unease. When he entered the ward, he saw her lying in bed, pale but awake, her baby beside her. For a long moment, neither spoke.

She looked at him—not with anger, but with something colder. The love in her eyes was gone, replaced by a deep, unspoken distance. She had endured his absence, his mother’s cruelty, and the near loss of their child. The person he had left behind was no longer the same.

The man stood there, speechless, realizing too late what his selfishness had cost him. The sea that once promised him freedom had taken something far greater in return: his wife’s trust, her warmth, and perhaps, their future together.

From that day on, the village remembered the story of the woman who worked through her pain and survived. Her courage was whispered about in quiet admiration, while her husband and his mother became symbols of neglect and regret.

And though the woman never returned to that old house again, the field where she fell still stood as a silent reminder—a place where cruelty met consequence, and where love, tested by hardship, chose to survive in a different form: the fragile heartbeat of a child who lived because strangers cared when family did not.