I’m not proud of how this begins. I stole a married man from his wife and three kids, justifying it to myself as love. Every excuse protected me from guilt.
Then his wife called. Her voice was trembling; she begged me to stop, to let her husband come home. I replied coldly, dismissing her pain.
A year later I was pregnant and happy—or so I thought. After a check-up I found a note on my door: Run. Even you don’t deserve it.
Soon after, a stranger messaged me photos of my partner with another pregnant woman—same jacket, same smile, just not me. The last message said he wouldn’t change and warned me not to end up like her.
I sank to the floor—because I knew exactly who she was.