It’s Saturday night, which, for Tom and I, has always meant having a curry and a drink together, except I stopped drinking almost nine months ago when I fell pregnant. He didn’t stop.

Tonight, when our curry arrived, he opened his beers and brought out a bottle of vodka that he’d bought earlier. He poured the vodka, handed it to me and told me to have a drink with him. I laughed, thinking he was joking; that was until his face went red and he went quickly into a rage – screaming and shouting at me to “Drink the fucking thing!”

I pointed to my heavily swollen belly and said, “Seriously?” He was serious, and he started ranting about how it doesn’t do the baby any harm, and how the government’s advice is all complete bullshit, and that I’ve been brainwashed into believing it.

He’s mad.

He so desperately wanted a baby, and now he’s prepared to jeopardise her health.

I don’t understand him at all.