I’m 34 years old, about to become a father for the first time. My wife, Thảo, is seven months pregnant. Our marriage has always been peaceful and full of love. But one night, when I unexpectedly came home earlier than planned, all my trust nearly crumbled—just because of one inside-out pink dress.

That day, I had a three-day business trip to Ho Chi Minh City. The company asked for an additional report, so my flight was delayed. I thought about texting my wife, but then I stopped: “Better to keep it a surprise.” I missed her so much—missed her heavy, pregnant figure, even the sound of her tired breathing when she lay on her side.

I arrived home close to 1 a.m. The house was dark, except for the dim glow of the bedside lamp. I gently opened the bedroom door, ready to hug my wife from behind. Then my eyes froze. She was lying on her side, back to the door. She was wearing her familiar light pink maternity dress—but… it was inside out. The seams stuck out clearly, and the fabric tag was showing.

A frightening thought flashed across my mind: Why was her dress inside out? Did someone just rush out in a hurry? Was she hiding something? My face went pale, blood rushed to my head, and my heart pounded wildly. My mind spun, conjuring up terrible scenarios: another man, betrayal… and the most terrifying thought—was the baby in her womb even mine?

I stood frozen for a minute, staring at my sleeping wife, her pregnant belly rising and falling with each steady breath. Anger and suspicion made my hands tremble. I stepped closer, gently shook her shoulder, my voice choked:

— “Why… why is your dress inside out?”

Thảo startled awake, still groggy. Seeing me, she looked surprised:

— “You’re home? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She tried to sit up, then winced from the weight of her belly. I repeated the question, harsher this time:

— “Why are you wearing your dress inside out? What were you doing behind my back?”

She stared at me, eyes wide. Her surprise turned into fear, and suddenly her eyes reddened. Tears streamed down her face.

— “You… what are you thinking? Do you suspect me?”

I stayed silent, unable to answer, just glaring at the pink dress. My wife sobbed and explained:

— “I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. It was so hot, I changed my dress, but I was exhausted and put it on wrong… I didn’t even look in the mirror, I just wanted to lie down quickly… Honey, I’m pregnant, where would I even find the strength for anything else…”

Her voice trembled, her hand instinctively resting on her belly, as if shielding our child. Seeing her like that, my heart twisted in pain. Memories flooded back: the nights she cried from leg cramps, whispering, “I’m so scared of giving birth.” The meals she vomited out, losing weight but still forcing herself to eat for the baby. And yet, in just a few seconds, I had let my imagination tear everything apart.

I lowered my head, hugged her tightly, and whispered an apology. Thảo leaned on my shoulder, crying and hiccupping:

— “I’m exhausted. My body has changed, I feel ugly and worn out, and now even my own husband suspects me…”

I held her tighter, overwhelmed with regret. The only words I could manage were:

— “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’m just afraid of losing you.”

That night, we sat together on the bed, the soft yellow lamp glowing. Thảo opened up to me—about her forgetfulness during pregnancy, her fear every time the doctor said the baby was slightly small and needed monitoring. She admitted: “Sometimes I look in the mirror, see my swollen body and pimples, and I’m afraid you’ll stop loving me. But now… even you suspect me…”

Her words cut into me like a knife. I held her hand and promised never to let it happen again. I realized that during pregnancy, what a woman needs most isn’t just money or kind words—it’s her husband’s unwavering trust.

The next morning, I woke up early and made chicken porridge for her. When I brought the bowl to the bedroom, Thảo was sitting on the bed, gently stroking her belly. She smiled at me—tired, but warm. I placed my hand on her belly, feeling our baby’s soft kick, and peace returned to my heart.

A few days later, Thảo washed the pink dress and folded it neatly. When I saw it, it no longer looked like “evidence” of betrayal, but a reminder—a moment when trust was nearly lost, and how lucky I was to still have the woman I love most.

Now, every night as I lie beside Thảo, my hand resting on her pregnant belly, I silently promise myself: never to let foolish doubts destroy the happiness we have. And never to forget—that behind an inside-out dress may simply be exhaustion, pressure, and the struggles of pregnancy… things only a husband and father can truly understand.