The day began like any other: my pregnant wife kissed me goodbye as I left for work, and I told her I’d cook dinner. She stayed home to get our son, Jackson, ready for school, then returned to bed with tea and a book before logging on to work.
At the office, I approved marketing plans while gently thinking of baby names. Then, at 2 p.m., Jackson called—and texted with urgency: “Dad, please come home! It’s about Mom! I’m scared.”
My blood ran cold. I slipped out of a meeting, rushed to my car, and sped home, envisioning every terrible possibility. I pulled up to see my mother pale on the porch. “Is Laura okay?” I asked. She faltered, apologized—but said Laura was fine. Instead, she revealed that Laura was cheating.
My world spun. My mother had walked in while using our bathroom and found Laura with another man. She made sure he stayed until I got home. Inside, I confronted a stunned Laura and a stranger. Jackson arrived, confused and tearful. He asked, “Why did she do it?”
Laura apologized; I held Jackson, my heart breaking. Later, over dinner, Jackson admitted he’d thought something was wrong with Mom—until Grandma told him the truth.
That night, Laura asked how to fix things. I asked if the baby was mine—she quietly admitted she wasn’t sure. She began therapy; I decided to stay until the baby was born and get a DNA test before deciding what to do next.
I don’t know what comes next—but I’m bracing for that test.