A Better Helpmeet (Tom Hiddleston x fem! Reader Oneshot)
Summary: Tom goes away to film and premiere The Essex Serpent. But when you find out what it's about, it causes your doubts and insecurities to overwhelm you...
Word Count: 5807 (you will need breaks for food, water, and to use the bathroom.)
Warnings: Not liking the Essex Serpent (or Queen Charlotte) and taking that out in writing. Portrayal of suicidal feelings. There is a suicide attempt in the fic but I will never show the actual scene. It will just cut to the person getting help. Mentions of sexual assault and the fear of cheating. Pregnancy. Cyber bullying.
A/N: So this is a request I got from @steaa90-blog to do a fanficiton about Reader being pregnant when Tom is involved in The Essex Serpent until she finds out what it's about and confronts him. She wanted it to be 5K pages. I got up to 3K...but then I realized where this fic needed to go. This will get darker and I will open up about what happened to me last year. In short, last year I became manic and had a suicide attempt, but obviously survived and got help. I am doing better now, but writing this was a way to reflect on what happened and use my pain for art in some way, and to heal from what happened. I may not have had a Tom, but I had my family and a couple friends. My DM's are open if you ever want to talk. But if you have suicidal feelings, please drop everything and contact emergency services. These feelings go away and they end, I promise you. But anways, please share a comment if you liked it!
When the little plus sign arrived on the test, you knew your life had changed forever. Still, you had to be sure, so you got another test. And then another. And another.
Plus sign. Plus sign. Plus sign.
It was one thing to suspect. To have that inkling. That suspicion. Tom and you satisfied each craving, each want. And you wanted to have a family. But it was different to have the dreaming and seeking. It was another thing to have the evidence right in front of you. Something wonderful was happening. It had happened, and it was about to happen. It was more wonderful than you could ever imagine. It was flourishing in you. Although right now, the child inside you was so small. The size of a pea. But it would grow. A child who was already so loved and so wanted.
Still, you had to have things ready for your husband. When he arrived home, you were immediately at the front door as he stepped in. You threw your hands around his shoulders. Tom, dear Tom. He was everything. Your lover. Your best friend. And now the father of your child.
“Tom…” you began.
He paused, his jacket still over his shoulders.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked.
You pulled out the three pregnancy tests from your pocket.
“We’re having a baby!” you cried.
He picked you up and spun you around, landing a kiss right on your lips. You kissed him again.
“I’ve never loved you more. You’re going to be a wonderful mother- I love our little one already,” he said, placing a warm hand on your belly.
You already had an announcement set up for Instagram. You put out a blanket with a whiteboard and set flowers around it.
“Welcome Baby Hiddleston-Coming Soon.”
The responses brought love and care. There were a few “OMG! Congrats!”
And “WOW! Tom Hiddleston is a DILF,” which made you laugh. And you did agree. Fatherhood was going to make him even more attractive to you. There was something about a hot dad. A man who cared and took care of his family.
As well as “this is going to be a beautiful baby. The mom is hot, the dad is hot, combined? Come on!” and “Tom is too fine not to reproduce.”
But then…there were other comments.
They were little. At first like the faint buzzing of a bee flying past you. You saw “really, with her?” As well as “she must be puking out her guts now- LOL!” and “Just wait until she gains all that baby weight, he won’t want her then.”
They were at first a few. But they were a vocal few. You tried to ignore them.
But still, they bothered you. They made you uncomfortable. And your phone kept buzzing. There was new information on there. It was as if your phone was alerting you to every last little thing that was going on. Blasting a comment at your face. And taking a gamble as to what this person would say.
The dam did not confine itself to Instagram. X had featured memes of you with your face on animals that had thousands of likes. Threads had people listing every wrong thing you were doing in public. Tumblr posts were sharing very unflattering images of you. You were self-conscious when you went out. And when you were out, how much paparazzi followed you? How many photos did they take? You made sure you wore nice clothes and put on makeup before you stepped out of the house, from then on. It seemed there was a little of it when you were first with Tom. But now it seemed it was more persistent.
“They’re…they’re jealous, don’t take it personally,” you reminded yourself. It carried you through.
The first trimester had its trials. You were waking up in the morning. Your stomach souring. You ran over, lifted the lid to the toilet, and threw up. You liked to start the day by drinking water. Usually, you drank one whole bottle before you had your coffee (only now, you had to switch to decaf). It was only a few sips, and soon it felt like you had to go pee or you would die. So you would burst into the bathroom and pee out until every last drop squeezed out of you.
It was then that Tom left to film a certain project. A miniseries from Apple TV. You had no idea what it was. Tom gave you some background on it. It was a television adaptation of a novel, The Essex Serpent. The book had won awards. A producer picked it up to adapt it to the screen. Tom signed a contract with Apple TV. So he had to do as they commanded. You looked up a summary on the IMDB page for the yet-to-be-made series: a widowed woman finds refuge looking for a serpent.
Funny. The main character is a woman. That's odd, with such a big name like Tom, you would assume it would be about him. He had long earned his share of leading man roles. How could he not?
You talked with Tom over the phone one night. Right over your dinner of chicken and baked potatoes.
“Who do you play?” you asked.
“I play William Ransome, he’s the vicar of this small town,” he explained.
You smiled. “Oh…so you’re going to be a hot priest?”
“A what?”
“The term came from this show, Fleabag. Name says it all. There’s a character who’s named Hot Priest. He falls for the main girl. It gets really sexy, and then really sad. Everyone wanted him and loved him,” you explained.
A small laugh came out of Tom. His eyes sparkled.
“Ah, thank you,” said Tom.
It was fun, having the house to yourself. All the streaming platforms for marathons of your favorite shows and movies. Going to the toilet with the door open. You even enjoyed getting a whole tub of ice cream with no husband to share it with.
But then there was silence.
Nothing. Only the cars crossing the road outside. The rain pattering on the window. And the pregnancy. You were putting on weight. Cue all the comments on Instagram predicting you would look like a cow. And with the way your breasts were starting to heave with milk, you already felt like one.
But there was a point where it was pure boredom. No show seemed good enough to watch. No book seemed interesting enough to read. And you were off from work. There with your growing belly and your swelling feet and heavy breasts.
Your calls to Tom became longer. He didn’t talk much about hte shoot. Only about it being cold and missing hot, warm tea and dinners. It was both a comfort and a torture to see the pictures people have taken on set. Tom in priest attire in the middle of fields or with sexy open white shirts. Your hormones were raging. You wanted to grab him and ride him into the sunset. Get on your knees and suck him dry. Thank the lord for vibrators. It would then only leave you feeling empty once the device was turned off. It wasn’t like having him actually there. You missed him.
But soon he was back. You embraced and kissed him. Having things to watch now would be more interesting with his commentary. His presence, his footsteps, his scent.
Though time passed. Editing was now complete. Soon, the show was about to premiere. There would be a red carpet, heels, gowns, and champagne. Followed by a screening where everyone sat and tasted the first three episodes.
“I don’t know if you should go,” Tom said.
He was scrolling on his phone when the announcement came. A call for all involved to be there for the premiere. You looked down at your growing belly. You were now starting to waddle around the house like a penguin.
“I agree,” you said. “Go ahead, I don’t have to be there.”
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was always good to have a life outside of your marriage, outside of your home, so you met with your friend Jackie. It was a typical meeting of hers- a trip to see the different shopping locations followed by a meal. She plopped her bags down beneath the table. She got tons of new clothes versus your one modest bag. At once, she was ordering a drink, an appetizer, and rib-eye. She looked at you and beamed, her face full of makeup and looking as upright as ever in her stylish dress.
“Where has Tom been?” she asked.
“He got back from filming, and now he’s gone for the premiere,” you answered.
The server arrived with your mozzarella sticks. Jackie took one and dipped it in marinara sauce.
“What’s premiering?”
“It’s a period drama.”
“Period drama? Y/N, I hardly watch those. Love Island’s been taking up my time.”
“The Essex Serpent. It’s based on a book. He’s playing a hot priest, and the internet is going to explode when he does. If it hasn’t already.”
Jackie blinked. The mozzarella stick in her hand froze in mid-air. She set it down. It’s hot, fried, cheesy goodness all forgotten.
“The Essex Serpent?” she asked.
“Yeah!”
Your drinks arrived. The server placed Jackie’s margherita to her left. She then put your virgin drink to your right.
“Do you know what it’s about?” Jackie asked.
“Yeah. It’s the 19th century. This woman’s abusive husband dies. She’s going to look for this giant serpent in a small town,” you took a sip of your drink. It was fruity and sweet.
“But…do you know what the priest has to do with it?” Jackied asked.
She put her mozzarella stick on her plate. She leaned forward and folded her hands.
“Tom’s the love interest.”
“Y/N, he’s married,” Jackie said.
“He marries the main woman?”
“No…he’s already married. With kids. I read the book, Y/N. It’s about an affair.”
You paused. Something in you froze. She might as well have slapped you.
“I’m sorry…what? Could you say that again? I want to make sure I’m not crazy, Jackie.”
“It’s an adultery story,” she said.
A heaviness that had nothing to do with the baby settled in your stomach. Jackie continued.
“He cheats on his wife as she’s dying from tuberculosis.”
Now you knew you weren’t hungry. You picked at your food when it arrived, and had to take the rest back in a box. But your mind was whirling.
It disrupted your sleep. You tossed and turned. You got out your phone, intending to call Tom, but you couldn’t. You knew he was busy.
Who was she? This fictional woman. This fictional wife?
Part of you hoped the wife was mean. Or abusive. That made it an easier pill to swallow. Adultery was easier to understand when one partner was a demon from hell. When you were a kid, you found this soap opera in your aunt’s DVD collection and watched some of it. It took place in the older days. There was this beautiful heroine who fell in love, but her father forced her to marry a much older man. The older husband sexually assaulted her on their wedding night. He beat her, killed her maid, and even locked her up in her room. The heroine ended up having an affair in the midst of this.
You remembered when you went to your mother as a pre-teen, and asked: “Mama, is adultery okay if one of the partners is abusive?” You couldn’t recall her answer.
When you stalked online, some people agreed with you. But it set off all sorts of responses from other people.
.
“Fiction isn’t supposed to be moral; stop being the Hays Code.”
“Fiction shouldn’t have to appeal to morality, bad stuff doesn’t have to be punished, are you a puritan?”
“But remember, your trigger warnings are your responsibility.”
But you couldn’t help but ask yourself, “Do your friends' mouths come with trigger warnings?”
Yes, Y/N, why didn’t you check the trigger warnings? Why weren’t you careful? Why did you act like that? Why did you dress like that? Why did you go to that place? Why did you have that drink? Why did you talk to that man? It’s all your fault. You should have been more careful. It. Was. All. Your. Fault.
You didn’t plan to read the book at all. You ended up wandering into a bookstore. Noting which section marked P for Perry, as in Sarah Perry, the author. You would lower your eyes and walk away. Or flip it off. That made you feel better. A little.
But then came one comment. It completely changed your perspective.
This one woman online. How odd, you never met her and she never met you, but yet you respected her opinion- was talking about book reviews. She began to note that there were people who left reviews who never actually read the book. That it was wrong. Rude. Unfair.
You paused. Could you say you hated the Essex Serpent if you never experienced it? How could you be mentally critiquing it…and all while knowing nothing about it?
There was only one way to settle that. One way to justify your hatred of the book. To gain the right to say or feel anything bad about it.
You went to the library and got a copy.
You sat down to read. But found yourself invested in it. Reading on breaks. Reading before dinner and delaying dinner further to read more. Yes, the writing was pretty. Sarah Perry is more of a poet than a storyteller.
But this wife…her name was Stella. Stella for star. And her husband did call her a star of the sea. (“Liar!” you thought, wanting to throw the book across the room).
She handed people flowers. Befriended everyone. Saw beauty and meaning in such ordinary things. Her mother said sex was only endured for the sake of children, but she had a wonderful sex life with her husband. In fact, she was always pregnant early in their marriage. She had borne five children and buried two. You were already dealing with bearing one child, but having five! That was quite a lot! And you couldn’t imagine losing the one you had. When you read that part, you put a protective hand over your belly as if to shield your baby from any harm.
Yes, Stella got sick. Yes, she wanted her husband to be happy. Yes, that involved saying she was too tired to dance. That her husband should dance with Cora, the main female character. Instead.
But…Neither Cora nor Will seemed to know that Stella approved of the affair. They didn’t know her thoughts and feelings. Didn’t consider it.
And they didn’t seem to care.
Nowhere in the text did they ever stop and think about how this would affect Stella.
Will was too happy masturbating (while “howling like a dog”) over the marshes to Cora. Cora was busy picking out postcards to send to Will.
And as Stella got sick, she would write in her journal. Though, of course, she didn’t allow Will to see her journal. So how on earth could he ever know she actually approved of the affair! She could not want it for all he knew!
Stella called Cora Will’s “better helpmeet.”
That meant his better wife.
Despite everything Stella did. Having sex with her husband. Giving him children. Being a dutiful vicar’s wife. Leaving him alone on Saturdays to work. Being religious and feminine. Having no ambitions outside of marriage and motherhood. Being loyal to him. Loving only him.
She wasn’t enough.
She never was. And she never would be.
You tried not to think about it. To distract yourself. To find things that preoccupy your mind. You turned on Netflix to binge-watch the Queen Charlotte spinoff. Only to find out with horror that, betrayal of marital vows did in fact exist in that world. The kind that was celebrated. Violet’s father had an affair with Lady Danbury. And by then Lady Danbury was a widow.
It was like The Essex Serpent. And his kid knew and approved… because of love? And it implied the wife deserved it because she was mean and…racist. (She! A wealthy white woman in 18th-century England was racist! That never happened!)
The wife’s actions and behaviors didn’t matter. A wife betrayed is a wife betrayed.
You wanted to throw your remote across the room. You wanted to punch the television. You ended up sobbing, downing two soda cans, and not sleeping.
How often had this happened? Why did people have that fantasy? You knew the answer. It was the fantasy of being desired, of being chosen, of being wanted that badly that someone with enough want would cross that line for you. Isn’t that what all women wanted, after all? To be wanted.
It then struck you…why did Tom say yes to this role? Why did he seem so eager to do it?
Why didn’t he tell you about the affair?
Had he read the book before? What did he think? What did he feel? Did he not consider Stella? Stella, the lesser helpmeet?
To think when you married him, you thought him better, nobler, higher? Was Tom really just a man?
All that love, all that work…and there was nothing. Nothing at all. Was he…betraying you? Wouldn’t he…would he? He probably already did. The role of Will Ransome stirred excitement in Tom.
One morning, you woke up, and you couldn’t get yourself out of bed. You felt spent. Empty. Nothing.
You couldn’t text Tom. He was too busy with the premiere. And maybe a woman who was a better wife than you.
And how alone you were. They would all say you were crazy. Getting this upset over a fictional narrative? You should have checked the trigger warnings.
I’m stupid, you thought, stupid, and I hate myself.
You wanted to yell, to scream. You typed out a text to Tom that was in all caps, but you deleted it.
You lay in your bed, staring at your ceiling, and sobbed.
You then got up. But your body felt heavy. You could barely eat breakfast. You had several tabs open on your phone of various stores online. You put items in your cart as “treat yourself” shopping days, and you purchased a lot. Money was flying from your bank account. You maxed out your credit card. But no matter how much you bought, there was that rush, that thrill…and then it went away. It didn’t stop the bad feeling. Only numbed it for a short while.
You weren’t good enough for him. And he didn’t keep to his vows.
You felt nothing but pain. There was truly nothing but pain around you. And you wanted the pain to stop. Anything to make it stop.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next thing you knew, you were in a hospital. The white, fluorescent light blaring in your face. The tall, white walls bleaching out the world around you. It smelled acidic, like hand sanitizer. You wore a blue hospital gown over your shirt and pants. Red socks with little white dots all over them were on your feet. You looked around, and there were nurses and doctors all around you.
The shame felt hard. You didn’t know if it was shame or relief. You felt embarrassed. You felt weak. You couldn’t lift your arms or move your legs. You didn’t know what to think. But you were also scared. Open and vulnerable. Dragged to your lowest point. At your ugliest, rawest self…and what would you find? You felt groggy. You felt frightened. You shook. You were something cracked and open. Raw and bleeding.
There was a doctor who was on the phone, talking to someone. You couldn’t tell who.
“Yes…suicide attempt…she survived, she’s with us. Called us in time. We have to watch her.”
You turned your head to her. As you spoke, your voice felt hoarse.
“Is…is the baby okay?”
The medical worker turned her dark head over to you. She put a hand over the phone.
“Yes. The baby is still there. You both are gonna be okay.”
They wheeled you over from the emergency room to a hospital room. It was yellow with a wide window showing a street. It was already night, and there were no stars in the sky from the fluorescent glow of the hospital’s lights. Attached wires around your body to measure your pulse and vital organs. Though you had to peel them off to use the bathroom on shaky legs. They assigned one person to watch over you, sitting in a chair next to you as they stared at their phone all day. Noticing a small black remote, you pushed the red button to turn on the television.
You were changing the channel to a movie when Tom burst in. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair unbrushed. Scruff was all over his chin. He ran over to you and took your hand.
“Darling, darling- how are you? Oh God, thank God-I canceled everything- I had to go over- they told me everything- tell me, how are you now?” he went over and cupped your face.
“I’m…I’m alright…”
He kissed the top of your forehead and pulled you in for a hug. It was the longest, tightest hug you had ever received from him. He smelled of sweat. It had struck you-he was your emergency contact. And he dropped everything he had to go to you.
“What happened? Please tell me!” he said.
“Tom, I…I…I thought you didn’t love me. And…I was all alone. I thought the pain would never end. I thought all I did for you. All that happened…was for nothing…and I felt…felt nothing…nothing but sadness…and I wanted it to go away.”
“You are enough for me, my angel. What brought you to think there was no way out? Well, I’m here. And I’m staying. I’m staying until the sadness goes away. Whatever happens next, we’ll face it together,” he promised.
He stayed in that room all day. The TV screen played a movie from your childhood that you both watched together. Tom was there to hold your hand. He spoke to the nurses and made sure you got your meals delivered. He was there for checkups. He even sat on the bed and let you curl up next to him.
Once enough time had passed, the hospital declared you to be stable. They brought you to a crisis center to recover. They took your phone and placed it in a bag, putting it in a closet where you couldn’t access it. The days felt like a boarding school. You changed into a large grey sweatshirt that covered your belly and long pants with green socks. It was so cold in the building. You requested having an extra blanket that always had to stay in your room. They made sure you had the right medications that would not harm your baby. And you spent your days coloring, doing word searches. Walking the halls for exercise, staring out the window. Watching television and waiting for your next meal. God, it was boring. People in movies and media always made psych wards way scarier than they actually were. The other people in there didn’t threaten you. They usually slept all day. Taking all the comfortable couches, so all you had left were hard chairs to watch the current movie with.
You looked forward to the hour when they allowed you to call Tom. Guests and visitors weren’t permitted. But you could call. So you scrawled up his number on a piece of paper you always had with you. Then lay the scrap next to your bed as you slept. Dreaming of seeing him, touching him, being with him in every way a wife could. You would call and talk to him. He would discuss doing various chores around the house. Cleaning his office or a new recipe he tried, and he wanted to hear about all that you were doing.
He even commented, “You’re already improving, my love. Keep at it. You’re starting to sound like yourself again.”
Then one morning, you walked into the main room before breakfast. A sitcom came on. On the show, a husband and wife were debating an issue. But then the wife proved her point with several quips. In the style of the sitcom, some words on the screen pointed to her and said: “Just got him.” Then the words pointed to the defeated husband and said: “hates being got.”
It made you laugh. Yes, laugh. It came out small, but then it poured out of you like singing, like a water fountain, like the stretch of a rainbow. Laughter. You couldn’t remember the last time you had laughed.
From then on, you made sure to make the most of your time. You talked with the social worker. You took your meds. You used the back pages of the word searches and coloring pages to journal with crayons. You made sure to watch every tv show and movie and take note of it to tell Tom all about it. Meals regained their taste. Everything was…interesting. You even made lists of everything you were going to do once you were out.
You were going to go to the park and walk for thirty minutes every day. You were going to reread all your favorite books. You were going to go eat ice cream. You were going to watch all these movies.
Soon enough, they put you in the room and announced that you would be heading home in two days.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That morning, the crisis center gave you your phone back and a bag. On it was a 90-day supply of your medications. There were cards reminding you of your first therapy and doctor's appointment. You gave them the address, and they put you in a car and drove you over. It was parked before your place. You got out, still in the grey sweatshirt and pants. Feeling like the final girl crawling out of the horror movie. Now that the horror was over…now what would happen?
Once you arrived at your home, Tom immediately ran to the door. He embraced you and kissed you.
“My dear, we need to celebrate. What would you like to do? Anything you want to eat?”
“You know what I’m craving? Buttered popcorn. The kind from the movies,” you said.
After you changed out of your grey shirt and sweatpants, you and Tom saw a matinee at the local theatre. Damn the press, he was going to be out with his wife. You both saw something you’ve been curious about. Something you could handle. You munched on popcorn and let the butter get beneath your fingernails. As you walked out, you had to squint because the light of the day was shining right in your face. Your belly was so full you felt as if popcorn could spill out of it. Tom held your hand and walked you over to the car. He drove home, as you both discussed the movie. Tom went on about the acting. You pointed out what you liked and what you didn’t like.
But the time had come to finally bring up the subject. Now that you have privacy. It was easier while driving. Tom was looking at the road and getting close to parking the car at home.
“Tom, I know that the Essex Serpent is a cheating story. And your character cheats on his wife.”
He frowned. He turned a corner to the right.
“You know I’m not my characters.”
“Why did you agree to do it?” you asked.
“Let me park first.”
He pulled the car up to the spot where he always parked. He then put it in park and turned it off. He looked over at you.
“I don’t think cheating is an okay thing. And the book is beautiful. And I want to play complex characters. I want challenges. I love Loki, I always will, but I want to try to challenge myself.”
You folded your hands in your lap. You looked down over your swelling belly. Tears began to well up, and your face felt hot.
“But Tom…has there…has there been anyone…with you being so enthusiastic about this role, I…I…”
A tear rolled down your cheek despite yourself.
“Because you wanted to cheat on me!”
The sobbing began. Uncontrollable. A dam built up now broken. He held you and rocked you back and forth.
“Oh, my poor dear, oh sweet angel, darling Y/N…shhh, shhhh…” he said.
He then held your face, looking into your eyes. Wiping your tears with his thumb.
“No. There was no one. Not during filming. Not during the premiere. And there will be no one. There hasn’t been anyone since we met. I saw you, spoke to you…and when I realized I loved you, there was no one else for me. I wanted you for my wife, or I wouldn’t have one at all. I made you a promise-until death do us part. And I intend on keeping it.”
You wrapped your arms around him and kissed his cheek. He held you for a while. Outside, you heard birds chirping. The cool air from outside seeped in through the windows. But you had your husband to keep you warm.
“I-I read it, and I hated it. You may have gotten something out of it, but I…I respect you as an actor, but that story and Will make me so angry! You should have told me what it was about?” you asked.
“I…I didn’t want to spoil it for you!”
“I’d prefer to know what happens when you take something! I can handle spoilers.”
“Darling, I…I’m sorry, I should have told you.”
He released the hug. You sniffed back a few tears. A smile broke on you despite yourself. There was something inside of you bursting. But instead of feeling hopelessness, there was something else. Something growing- something pure.
“Tom…I know you’re not your characters. I don’t want your characters. I want you…But it’s been tough, the things- the things people online have said about me!”
“What do they say?” he asked.
You told him. His face turned red, and there was a flare in his blue eyes.
He took your hands in his own. They were large, soft, and warm, completely covering your own.
“And I promise, from now on, I will do everything in my power to protect you and the baby…I will be right here. And…if you ever want to speak. About anything. Anything at all…I promise you, I will not judge you. I am here, and I am listening.”
You both hugged each other. You felt a tear slide down from your eyes. He then gave you a little kiss on your forehead, and you smiled.
That night, he made a special chicken dinner. He put his hand on your thigh and smiled at you. He would whisper things to your ear. And you felt desire bloom in you like a flower. You both went to bed. And enjoyed each other’s bodies until it was very late, and you were crying his name aloud from pleasure.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For the next week, he was attentive. He made sure to cook all your meals, he let you rest, and you watched movies and television together. Even doing each other's tasks on the computer in each other’s presence. You never left each other alone.
On a Thursday, Tom got out the ring light. He adjusted the brightness and then got his phone out. He pressed a button, and soon the live video camera was on.
“Hello, this is Tom, and I have a message for you fans…”
You stood by, away from the camera. Tom didn’t believe in social media. He thought it was too much of a distraction. But yet here he was- going live on Instagram. His message was that important.
“I have heard some of you disrespecting and insulting my wife. Mocking her, being cruel to her- and this I cannot tolerate. I must ask that this stop now.”
You knew it might not be a perfect response. There will still be some comments that got to you, but you were going to practice as Tom did. Spending less time on social media. Setting your accounts to private. Spending more time in the real world, enjoying real things. Things like ice cream, books, movies, and warm drinks. You still had nightmares sometimes about what happened. Surviving a suicide attempt meant that now everything was a threat. You went to your ultimate low. And it struck you that you could go there again.
Yet again, it only meant you saw your life as precious again. You were taking your medications at the same time every day. And you were getting therapy. With someone who wouldn’t cry, “Why didn’t you check the trigger warnings!” when you explained what happened. You continued to watch Tom.
“From now on, we’re going to take regular sabbaths from social media. But comments that dare to harm my wife, I will block and report.”
Tom then finished his message and signed off. Wishing love and a good day to all watching who would still support and love you both. It was wonderful- Tom couldn't help but be Tom. Even if he was angry, the rare times he was, it was full of love.
He turned off the ringlight and set his phone down. He then smiled at you.
“Have you heard of the Ariadne Project?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t,” you said as you walked closer to him. Putting a hand on your belly to steady yourself.
“It’s a charity. For women whose husbands or families have abandoned them. Give them food, water, things they need.”
“Oh, they sound lovely.”
“My dear, I took the rest of my check from the Essex Serpent…and I’ve donated it to this charity,” he said.
Your jaw dropped. You walked up to him, grabbing his hand.
“Tom, are you sure?” you asked.
“Of course I’m sure…”
You leaned your head against him in a hug.
“Let’s never discuss that show again, Tom.”
“Alright. Only if you prompt it,” he said.
“Tom, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He put a hand on your belly. And you felt a kick. Letting out a gasp, you grabbed Tom’s hand and put it on your belly. A smile burst on him as he felt the baby kicking.
“Why, hello!” he said.
He leaned down, talking to the child inside as he placed both hands on your stomach.
“Your mother is the bravest person I’ve ever met. I can’t wait for you to meet her, little one.”
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