The room tilted.
The laughter around us faded into a distant hum. The pottery studio—bright, cheerful, full of women bonding—morphed into something surreal and suffocating.
Not only had my husband cheated.
He had a child with her.
“Water,” I managed to whisper, and Ava bolted from her seat.
The other women watched in stunned silence as the truth settled over the table like ash.
I barely remember walking to the bathroom. I just remember gripping the sink and staring at my reflection while my stomach tightened with more than pregnancy cramps.
Five weeks.
I was due in five weeks.
I didn’t have time for this.
That night, I confronted Malcolm.
There was no dramatic denial. No convincing lie. Just reluctant, exhausted confession.
Yes, there had been an affair.
Yes, there was a child.
Yes, he’d tried to “handle it.”
Each admission felt like another crack spreading across something I’d thought was solid.
I asked him how he could almost miss Tess’s birth. How he could have stood beside another woman while I was at home believing I was building a life with him.
He didn’t have an answer that mattered.
By morning, the marriage I thought I had was in pieces too small to put back together.
Now I’m researching divorce lawyers between bites of chocolate and prenatal vitamins.
This isn’t the family I pictured for my children. I never imagined they’d grow up in separate homes, navigating the complicated reality of a half-sibling born from betrayal.
But I also never imagined staying with a man who could look at me, hold my hand through one pregnancy, and still build a secret life behind my back.
He nearly missed our daughter’s birth because he was with someone else.
That’s not something I can forgive.
My children didn’t choose this. None of the kids did. And I refuse to let his deception define the kind of home they grow up in.
It’s not the future I planned.
But it will be honest.
And from here on out, that’s enough.
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