He didn’t answer. Just nodded once.
Everything tilted. I remember the sound of the pan sizzling behind me, and nothing else. Just a silence so heavy I felt like I couldn’t stand up straight.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said quickly. “We didn’t plan it, Lucy. We just… fell in love. I didn’t want to lie to you anymore. I can’t fight it. I’m so sorry.”
I stared at him, and my hands instinctively went to my stomach. I remember feeling her kick, our daughter who hadn’t even been born yet, as my whole world fell apart.
“I want a divorce,” he said softly. “I want to be with her.”
Then he added, as if it would somehow help, “Please don’t hate her. This was my fault. I’ll take care of you both. I swear.”
I don’t remember how I got to the couch. I just remember sitting there, staring, the walls closing in. Everything smelled of burnt garlic. My baby was moving, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands.
The fallout came fast. Mom said she was “heartbroken” but reminded me that “love is complicated.” Dad didn’t say much at all. He just kept reading the newspaper and muttering that “kids these days have no shame.”
Lizzie, the only one who seemed furious on my behalf, stopped showing up to family dinners. She called the whole situation “a slow-motion train wreck.”
People whispered. Not just family, but neighbors and people at work. My former high school lab partner even messaged me on Facebook with a fake-sweet, ‘I heard what happened. If you ever need to talk.’ Like I’d forgotten how she used to steal my pens and flirt with my prom date.
