When we arrived at the studio, the place was buzzing. Fifteen women, maybe more. Laughter, wine, paint splatters everywhere. It was meant to be lighthearted—a break from real life.
We settled in with our brushes and palettes, and conversation drifted naturally toward birth stories. Some women shared their own. Others repeated tales about sisters or cousins or dramatic midnight deliveries.
Then one woman—brunette, nervous energy, too-wide smile—started telling a story about her boyfriend leaving her on the Fourth of July because his sister-in-law had gone into labor.
“We were watching a movie,” she said. “It was almost midnight. He suddenly got a call and said Olivia was in labor. The whole family was rushing to the hospital. He said he had to go.”
My heart skipped.
Tess was born on July 4th.
And I was Olivia.
Ava and I locked eyes.
Coincidence, I told myself.
It had to be.
The woman kept talking.
“Six months later,” she continued, “I went into labor myself. And guess what? Malcolm missed it.” She let out a bitter laugh. “He said he couldn’t leave because he was babysitting his niece Tess.”
My fingers tightened around the paintbrush.
Ava leaned toward me and whispered, “What are the odds?”
My voice came out smaller than I expected. “Your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?”
The woman nodded.
I swallowed. “This Malcolm?”
My hands were shaking as I unlocked my phone and showed her my wallpaper—a photo of Malcolm, Tess, and me, my pregnant belly just beginning to show.
Her expression shifted from confusion to horror.
“That’s… your husband?” she asked.
I nodded.
She stared at me, stunned. Then she said the words that cracked my world open.
“He’s my son’s father too.”
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