Do you have that one thing at home no one uses anymore? We did—it was our landline.
It became a running joke—only scammers called, and Peter and I had fun messing with them. Marriage was all laughter and teasing; we were best friends.
But there was one strain: we couldn’t get pregnant. Dozens of tests, both healthy. I was heartbroken; Peter remained hopeful.
Then he announced a “work trip.” I tested again—negative—alone, craving ice cream and comfort. That’s when the landline rang. Frustrated, I answered harshly—but a voicemail said: “He’s waiting for you.” When I called back, a woman asked for Peter.
I tracked the number: Olivia, a florist, living hours away with a three‑year‑old, Hunter. No work trip—his boss confirmed. I drove there.
Olivia confessed: one night with Peter resulted in Hunter. Peter vanished after she told him she was pregnant. She never asked for money—just wanted her son’s dad. I promised to support her and Hunter.
Three days later Peter returned. I confronted him: Olivia’s son exists, and he’s wonderful—Peter was absent and unfaithful, even secretly spiking my tea with birth control. He admitted he never wanted kids and didn’t want to lose me. I was shattered.
I filed for divorce, helped Olivia file for child support, and sent him away. Finally, I inhaled freedom. It was time to show up—for Olivia, Hunter, and for myself.