Too Dirty To Touch

My husband cheated on me one month after I found out I was pregnant. He insisted he’d cut it off clean immediately, and the entire family instantly rallied to his defense.

“He’s learned his lesson, Anya. Everyone makes mistakes. He’s already fixed things. You’re pregnant, for heaven’s sake—how are you supposed to manage alone? Think of the baby.”

I was trapped in a suffocating web of family pressure, everyone demanding I play the role of the forgiving, high-minded wife.

But the sickening filth of his betrayal—it pressed down on me, driving me into a depression I couldn’t treat because of the pregnancy. The anxiety and insomnia were a constant, grueling battle I fought alone, venting my emotional chaos only through an obsessive, consuming need for cleanliness.

Grant was always gentle, his voice low and soothing.

“It’s alright, honey. Once the baby is here, things will be fine. I’m committed to making this right.”

From then on, everything he did required a ritual of sanitation. He’d sterilize every dish he touched, wear gloves if he needed to hold my hand, and wrap himself up like a mummy to cook dinner, sweating profusely but never complaining.

“It’s fine. I’m the one who messed up…”

Until finally, after I quietly pointed out a single stray hair on the polished hardwood floor, he completely snapped. He ripped off his protective apron and gloves.

“That’s enough! Yes, I cheated, and yes, I ended it instantly! Are you seriously going to punish me like this forever? Look at yourself, Anya! You don’t look like a normal person anymore! Am I that utterly disgusting to you?”

He started deliberately trashing the house, smashing a ceramic bowl, kicking over the trash can—a calculated retaliation against the mysophobia that had become my defense mechanism. He knew he had the entire family in his corner, and he’d seen me compromise for the baby before. Now he was demanding I finally cave and let his betrayal fade into the past.

My nerves instantly tightened. A sharp, unbearable cramp twisted my stomach, and blood, a horrifying amount of it, began pouring out between my legs.

And yet, in that moment, I felt an inexplicable, chilling wave of relief.

“Grant,” I said, my voice unnaturally steady. “We’re getting a divorce.”

1

The truth was, I couldn’t let it go. The barb was too deep.

The thought that just one month into carrying his child, he couldn’t stand the sight of me and ran straight into his secretary’s arms. The disgust was a poison I couldn’t flush out. I had tried. I tried to forget, to convince myself to listen to our parents and become the magnanimous wife.

But I couldn’t.

Grant shoved the front door open, pulling on his jacket.

“I can’t take this anymore! I’m a person, too! Fine, have your divorce!”

He left without a second look, without even registering the darkening pool of blood on the floor.

The five-month-old contractions finally overwhelmed me. I crumpled to the floor, dialing the hospital with shaking hands. Tears streamed down my face. I never imagined us reaching this point, where the sight of each other became a source of pure revulsion.

A flash of memory: him in his youth, laughing, full of triumphant energy. He’d carried me into the wedding car while everyone cheered, promising me forever. We’d even left our vows at the most sacred spot in the valley, a promise that was now nothing but dust.

The paramedic was astonished by the amount of blood as they lifted me onto the stretcher. She checked me, her expression grim and regretful.

“I’m sorry, but we might not be able to save this baby. The blood loss is too severe. You need to prepare yourself.”

My body was racked with pain, but my heart felt hollowed out. I remembered the hope that had come with this child, the stack of books, the countless articles, my desperate efforts to be a good mother.

But…

Forgive me.

I had to be myself first.

I still went through the agony of labor. Afterwards, drenched in sweat, I lay in the hospital bed, feeling like a corpse, next to the small bundle that had never had a chance to breathe.

I endured the cremation alone. The ashes were so tiny, almost nothing left to gather. It was as if this little one was an understanding spirit, choosing the hardest exit to force my hand. I buried the remains in a beautiful, quiet park overlooking the ocean.

During all of this, Grant never called.

The hospital had followed procedure and contacted him, but he chose to vanish. He must have been too consumed by his own righteous anger.

But what about me? I had nothing but my paralyzing fixation on cleanliness as an outlet. Otherwise, I felt like I was dissolving.

So dirty… Why did he do this to me?

After burying the baby, I walked straight to a law firm and requested a divorce agreement.

Later, while I was back in the hospital for follow-up, my parents called. Their first thought wasn’t for my recovery, but to defend Grant.

“Honey, why are you fighting again? You can’t be so stubborn. Marriage is compromise. Don’t keep bringing up divorce, it looks terrible.”

I was too tired to argue. What was the point of clinging to a marriage that was already dead? They had used the baby to try and trap me for months; now they had no leverage left.

So, I spoke calmly.

“I miscarried. The baby is gone.”

A long, thick silence followed before they finally hung up.

That afternoon, Grant’s parents—my in-laws—rushed over. They looked at my now-flat stomach, their eyes filled with pity for the lost child, promising they would straighten Grant out.

“That rotten boy, he’s nowhere to be seen! How could he not look after you?”

“Anya, you rest easy. I’ll give that idiot a proper dressing down. You won’t see him until you’ve cooled off.”

It was the same hollow routine. They pretended to be on my side, but every time they were just covering for their son, as if he were an innocent child and everything he did was forgivable.

A massive wave of apathy washed over me. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was just done. I didn’t love him, and I refused to share a life with him.

My voice was cold and steady. “I want a divorce.”

Their expressions immediately changed.

“Anya, don’t keep thinking that way. People need to compromise. Our son hasn’t been perfect, but I’ll make him change.”

My mother-in-law muttered under her breath, “Sometimes women just need to stop making such a fuss.”

A fuss?

I gripped the edge of the hospital gown. My tone was frigid.

“I am divorcing him, no matter what. Grant already agreed. You have an issue? Take it up with him.”

Unbelieving, they called Grant. Still steaming from our fight, he simply agreed with my statement.

“She’s right, Mom. Divorce. I can’t handle it. Do you know how much I’ve been degraded? I cheated, but I fixed it! I fired the secretary! What else do you want? Should I die and go back in time? I told her I was drunk, it was a mistake! It happened, we have to move on!”

He hung up before they could even tell him about the miscarriage, completely dismissing the entirety of my suffering.

How dare he play the victim? Cheaters are despicable. They don’t get to call themselves the ‘degraded’ ones.

For the past five months—since the day I found out I was pregnant—my hormones had amplified everything. I suffered from depression and insomnia with no medication. While he slept soundly, I was struggling through morning sickness, crying, dealing with swollen feet, and losing my hair in clumps. I was a balloon filled with dark energy, constantly consumed by thoughts of ending it all. Everyone had hidden my medication for the sake of the baby.

But what about me? I was a person, too. Who cared about me?

And he has the audacity to complain, to call himself the suffering one.

My parents arrived, too, demanding I maintain the marriage, just as they had demanded I get married in the first place.

“Listen to me! You are not divorcing! Your father and I wouldn’t harm you!”

They cared only for their image: a son-in-law who was successful, highly paid, and gave them “face” among their friends.

I didn’t care.

Looking at their self-serving faces, I smashed the glass of water on the bedside table.

“Enough! From this moment on, I am responsible for my own life.”

When they saw they couldn’t control me, they gave me the silent treatment, threatening to cut me off if I went through with the divorce. I ignored them. As soon as I was steady enough, I took the papers and went to his office.