Layla is not one to overthink, but she’s eight months pregnant and notices that her husband is acting strange. Very strange. Naturally, Layla has to investigate his late-night wanderings around the house. What is Josh up to, and why is it a secret?
I’ve never been one to overthink things — that was my sister’s entire personality. But something about my husband’s recent behavior was just… off.
We’ve been together for six years, which has been long enough for me to know when something’s not right. And lately, everything about him felt like a puzzle with most of the pieces missing.
At first, Josh was oddly attached to his phone, holding it so close you’d think it was a winning lottery ticket that was about to change our lives.
Whenever I walked into a room, he’d jump like I’d caught him mid-crime, and he would lock his phone, shoving it into his pocket before he made eye contact with me.
I brushed it off at first. Maybe Josh was just stressed about the baby. After all, we only had a few weeks before we were going to become a family of three.
But every time I tried to talk to him about it, he’d flash this tight, awkward smile.
“Everything’s fine, hon,” he’d say. “Really, Layla.”
Except it was pretty clear that everything wasn’t fine. His eyes told a different story.
I did think that maybe the pregnancy paranoia had hit me. When my sister, Mia, was pregnant, she was the chaotic mix of an overthinking and paranoid pregnant woman.
“It’s normal, Sis,” she told me. “I mean, I get paranoid that we don’t have enough food in the house. Or that the baby isn’t going to fit in the crib. Really, what nonsense is that? Pregnancy brain, that’s what.”
So, I thought that maybe my husband’s actions were fueling some sort of paranoia.
But you tell me, why was I paranoid?
Because what came next was… too strange for me to understand at first.
Josh started leaving our bedroom every night at exactly 2:45 a.m. Not once, not twice, but every night. Since I’d hit the third trimester, my sleep pattern was all over the place, but still, no matter how deep of a sleep I was in, something would wake me right around that time.
And I’d realize that the other side of the bed was empty.
Maybe he’s just restless, I told myself as I reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand. Maybe it’s insomnia.
At the same time, the same heavy footsteps? Every single night?
My gut started doing backflips, which caused my baby girl to kick away in retaliation.
What was Josh sneaking off to do? I wondered.
One morning, I couldn’t let it slide anymore, so I asked him straight out.
“Where did you go last night?” I asked as I made a fruit salad for breakfast.
“Oh… I went to get some water,” he said with an awkward smile. “And a snack.”
His answer was too rehearsed, like he had been planning it in his head for the longest time. But his voice always had an edge to it, like he wanted to shut down the conversation as fast as possible.
That wasn’t like Josh. My husband wasn’t the type to end conversations just because he felt like it. There had to be something else going on.
At night, I’d lie awake wondering if I’d missed some big, ugly truth.
Was Josh hiding something from me? Someone, maybe?
The thought of it made my nausea stronger.
What if… he wasn’t just sneaking off for a snack? What if it was something darker? 2:45 was supposed to be a strange time, right? Like when the veils between the worlds were thinner…
I tried not to let my mind wander, but let’s be real: pregnancy hormones and paranoia are a deadly combo.
So, last night, I’d had enough. No more questions, no more paranoia. I was going to find out the truth.
At 2:40 a.m., I lay awake, eyes closed. I knew Josh would leave soon. As if on cue, once 2:45 a.m. hit, the mattress shifted as Josh moved. He swung his legs off the bed and crept toward the door. The moonlight spilled through the curtains and made his silhouette look strange.
He looked too tall, too stiff, almost like he wasn’t himself. My heart began pounding, my hands began shaking, and I could feel a cold sweat on my forehead.Get it together, Layla, I shouted in my mind.
Soon, the door clicked shut behind him. I slipped out of bed, pulling my almost-too-small dressing robe on.
The house was dark and deathly quiet except for the faint creak of the hardwood floors beneath his steps. I trailed him down the hall, my bare feet silent against the cold wood.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw the glow — a faint, eerie light coming from the kitchen.
It’s probably the fridge light or even his phone, I told myself.
I stayed close to the wall, peeking around the corner into the kitchen. And that’s when I saw it.
He was standing by the counter, covered in the dim stove light, holding something small and white in one hand.
And what looked like a doll in the other.
I leaned in closer, trying to make sense of it. That’s when I realized Josh wasn’t just holding the doll. He was cradling it.
His hands moved slowly, delicately, like he was handling a real baby.
And then he started talking.
I couldn’t catch every word, but I think I heard enough.
“…there we go, little girl. I’ve got to get the angle right. Careful, careful. Come on, Josh.”
What the hell was this man doing?
My mind went wild with possibilities. Was Josh losing his mind? Or preparing for something horrible? Who gets out of bed only to cradle a doll in the middle of a kitchen?
I must have gasped because, in an instant, his head snapped up.
His eyes locked onto mine, wide and startled.
“Oh, my gosh, Layla!” he yelped, clutching the doll to his chest like it was some terrible secret. “I can explain!”
“What… are you doing, Josh?” I asked.
He blinked, his face turning a deep shade of red.
He took a deep breath, clearly embarrassed.
“Practicing what?” I asked.
“For when the baby comes, Layla. I didn’t want you to see me messing up. I’ve missed out on most of the baby classes you’ve gone to because of work. I just wanted to try and get everything in order. I’ve been practicing for about two weeks now. I’ve gotten the diaper change down, but I’m nervous about holding the baby when feeding,” he rambled on.
I blinked, my brain doing somersaults while my baby kicked away too.
All this sneaking around was just my husband learning how to change diapers?
He rubbed the back of his neck, still holding the doll awkwardly.
“First, I tried figuring out the formula. I used my protein powder instead of actual baby formula, but I kept getting the ratios wrong. Then I tried lullabies, but,” he stopped and cringed.
“I sounded terrible. Tonight, I was getting back to diapers. I figured that, you know, I’d better get used to it so that I don’t panic when the real deal comes.”
All the tension from the past few weeks melted away in an instant, and before I knew it, I started laughing.
Not just a chuckle, but a full-on, uncontrollable laugh that made me hold my belly and let tears stream down my face.
“You… you were running a secret dad boot camp? At 2:45 a.m. every night?”
Josh gave me a sheepish shrug.
“Yeah, boot camp is one way to put it.”
“You’re already good enough, Josh. The fact that you’re doing all this? That’s more than enough, love.”
He exhaled, finally smiling for real.
“Absolutely,” I said. “But next time, maybe tell me. So I don’t think that you’re doing strange things at odd hours.”
We spent the rest of that early morning in the kitchen, where I ate cold pizza from the fridge, and Josh showed me all his lessons.
As the first rays of sunlight crept through the windows, I knew that no matter what came next, we were going to be okay. Josh was just a nervous dad-to-be, wanting to be better. And together, we would be.
Bootcamps involving protein powder and all.
What would you have done?
If you’ve enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you:
Whitney spends her time working crazy shifts as a trauma nurse, only to get home and take over the running of her home, all while her husband, George, refuses to lift a finger. But one day, he offers to make her life easier, claiming that he’ll clean up the house. Is he cleaning up the house or a mess that he made?
George and I had been together for nearly 20 years. We’d raised our three kids, now off at university, and settled into a routine that was easy. So easy that neither of us questioned much. George worked hard and brought in most of the money, while I handled the house in between my shifts at the hospital.
It seemed to be an unspoken deal we had.
George didn’t lift a finger when it came to housework. Sometimes he would grab the groceries or wash a dish here and there. But other than that? The kitchen, the laundry, everything else?
It didn’t bother me. I never expected much help from George, and we never fought over it. We had our system, and for years, this seemed to work.
But then, everything changed.