Pregnant with my second child, I was exhausted and emotional. My best friend, Ava, insisted we go to a pottery party for a night out. I reluctantly agreed, unaware that my life was about to unravel.
The evening was fun at first—fifteen women sharing birth stories, painting, and laughing. Then, one woman mentioned how her boyfriend left a movie night on July 4th because his sister-in-law was in labor. My daughter, Tess, was born on July 4th. Ava and I exchanged wary glances.
Curiosity gnawed at me. “Your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
I showed her a picture of my husband, Malcolm, with our daughter. Her face paled.
“He’s the father of my child too,” she whispered.
The room spun. Confronting Malcolm confirmed the betrayal. He had a secret child, and our marriage shattered.
Now, five weeks from giving birth, I’m searching for divorce lawyers while eating chocolate. My kids deserve better, and while this isn’t what I planned, I’ll create a loving home for them—without him.
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