A phone buzzed on the coffee table. I grabbed it, assuming it was mine—same model, same case.
My body went cold.
A message from “❤️” read: “Can’t wait to see you again. Same time tomorrow, darling 😘.” My mind scrambled for explanations: wrong number, spam, a prank. But I opened the chat.
Flirting. Plans. Photos. Blake telling her to delete messages, that I was “distracted with the pregnancy.” Then a photo of a woman’s neck wearing a gold crescent-moon necklace—the same one I bought for my sister Harper.
I heard Blake approaching. I put the phone back and forced myself to look like a sleepy wife. He kissed my forehead and called me “little peanut,” rubbing my belly.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I decided not to confront him privately—he’d cry, I’d be told I was “overreacting” because I’m pregnant. Instead, once he left for “work,” I grabbed his phone again and screenshotted everything.
I called Harper casually about the gender reveal box, then cried once—ugly and fast. Then I planned.
I ordered a reveal box filled with black balloons stamped “CHEATER”, and confetti with broken hearts. I left clear evidence with the shop, then Harper helped “decorate.” Blake interacted with her too familiarly. I packed a bag in case I needed to leave.
On the day of the party, the backyard was full of friends and family. Blake was proudly announcing he’d be a dad. His mom hugged me, and Harper arrived in a pastel dress—too close to Blake.
When we opened the box, black balloons with “CHEATER” flooded out. Silence hit before whispers started.
Blake asked what it meant. I said, “This is a truth reveal.” Then I told everyone he’d been cheating—with Harper.
Gasps. Blake tried to speak. I pointed to the envelope of screenshots at the bottom of the box. Harper started crying. I told Blake he never meant it, he just did. I walked inside, packed the bag, and drove to my mom’s.
Before I left the street, my phone buzzed: Harper begging me to “think of the baby.” Blocked.