“You’ll be more emotional,” my mom warned in that knowing tone.
I rolled my eyes.
She wasn’t entirely wrong—but the hormones weren’t from pregnancy. They were from my husband.
All I wanted was to hide on the couch with greasy takeout and whatever snack the baby demanded. But Ava, my best friend, dragged me to a pottery night to “get me out of the house.” She’d even arranged for Malcolm to stay home with Tess—unusual, since she’d never liked him much.
At the studio, women swapped birth stories. Then one nervous brunette shared how her boyfriend left her on July 4th because his sister-in-law, Olivia, went into labor.
Tess was born on July 4th.
I’m Olivia.
My stomach dropped as she continued: months later, when she gave birth, Malcolm missed it—because he was babysitting his niece Tess.
My husband’s name is Malcolm.
Hands shaking, I showed her a photo of my family.
“That’s your husband?” she asked.
Then she said the words that shattered everything:
“He’s my son’s father too.”
Not only had he cheated—he had a child with her.
Five weeks before my due date, I confronted him. No big denial. Just a tired confession. Yes, there was an affair. Yes, there was a child. Yes, he’d tried to “handle it.”
By morning, my marriage was over.
Now I’m looking up divorce lawyers between chocolate cravings and prenatal vitamins. This isn’t the family I imagined. My children didn’t choose this.
But I won’t stay with a man who nearly missed our daughter’s birth because he was building a secret life.
It’s not the future I planned.
But it will be honest—and that’s enough.