Don’t freak out, but I think I see some stretch marks,” my husband whispered to me in a hushed tone. For a second, I didn’t know whether to scoff or to laugh in his face. I opted for the latter.
For context, I was about eight months pregnant at that point, and had gained close to 20kg. I thought I would rock my baby bump with a modicum of Rihanna’s pizzazz or Blake Lively’s effortless ease, but all I could manage was a clumsy waddle.
And no, the father of my child didn’t mean any harm by pointing out my newly
