Whenever you asked what was going on, he would shrug without looking at you.
“Work. That’s all.”
The truth arrived on an ordinary afternoon, which somehow made it crueler.
His phone lit up on the kitchen table while he was in the shower. You hadn’t meant to look. Even ten years later, you tell yourself that. You hadn’t been spying. You had been wiping spilled juice from the table when the screen brightened and the message appeared.
Love, our son is kicking so hard today.
You froze so completely it felt as if your skeleton had turned to salt.
When you confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.
“She understands me,” he said. “She’s not like you. You talk about the house, school, groceries, diapers. That’s all you ever are now.”
You remember staring at him and thinking that betrayal is never really one wound. It’s a row of them. First the affair. Then the pregnancy. Then the fact that he had built another future while still sleeping in your bed.
Before you could even answer, Teresa stepped in, her face practically glowing with vindication.
