Moving to a small town was supposed to be a fresh start for my husband, Aaron, and me as we struggled with my infertility. Aaron quickly became a local favorite at the pub’s open mic nights with his stand-up routines, but I struggled to fit in.
One evening, I decided to see his performance. Sneaking into the pub, I heard Aaron’s cruel jokes about my infertility. “My wife can’t have kids—that’s the only reason I married her!” he said, to roaring laughter. Devastated, I fled, tears streaming down my face.
Instead of leaving him, I devised a plan. For weeks, I attended his performances, recording his hurtful jokes. Then, on a night I pretended was Aaron’s surprise birthday party, I took the stage.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, pulling out my notebook. “Aaron has shared many jokes about me. Let me share a few.” I recited his cruelest lines, the room growing silent.
Aaron tried to stop me, but I pressed on. “You think making fun of my inability to have children is good fun?” I asked. The crowd murmured, Aaron’s friends looking uncomfortable.
Afterward, Aaron apologized, realizing the harm he had caused. The community was divided, but I found my voice and began building true friendships. Aaron’s genuine remorse and efforts to change brought us closer, and I discovered a strength within myself I never knew I had.
