After five years of heartbreak, I finally saw two pink lines. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just sat there, staring at the test, my hands trembling.
I needed confirmation.
At the ultrasound, the doctor smiled and pointed to the tiny flickering heartbeat. “Congratulations,” she said.
It was real. I was pregnant.
I should have been ecstatic, but as I left the clinic, my happiness turned to ice.
Down the hall, I saw him. Ronald. My husband.
And he wasn’t alone.
He was hugging a woman. A pregnant woman. His hands gently resting on her belly, his face soft—loving.
Not just a friendly hug. Intimate. The kind of touch that meant something.
My body froze.
I ducked behind a vending machine, my heart racing in my chest. Who was she? Why was he with her?
I tightened my grip on my purse. I could have confronted him then and there. Demanded answers.
But something inside me whispered, No. Watch. Listen. Find out.
So I did something I never thought I would do.
I followed them.
They got into Ronald’s car—the same car he drove me to appointments in—and I jumped into a cab, my heart pounding in my ears as I told the driver, “Follow that car.”
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at a small, private house.
I watched as Ronald stepped out, opened the door for her, and placed a protective hand on her back as he guided her inside.
Like a husband would.
I felt like I might throw up.
Hands shaking, I got out of the cab and crept toward the window. I peeked inside—my breath catching as I saw photos on the wall.
Ronald. The woman. Smiling. Happy. Wearing matching outfits at what looked like a baby shower.
A life I knew nothing about.
Then I saw something that made my stomach drop.
A name on the mantel.
“Welcome Baby Carter.”
Carter.
The name Ronald had suggested for our baby just a few nights ago.