The room tilted. The laughter faded into a distant hum. The bright, cheerful studio suddenly felt suffocating.
Not only had my husband cheated.
He had a child.
A child I knew nothing about.
“Water,” I managed, and Ava was already moving.
I barely remember walking to the bathroom. I just remember gripping the sink and staring at my reflection. Five weeks. I was due in five weeks.
There was no time for my marriage to collapse. No space to unravel slowly.
And yet here I was—seven months pregnant—learning my husband had built an entirely separate life.
Confrontation
That night, I confronted Malcolm.
There was no dramatic denial. No elaborate lies.
Just a tired, reluctant confession.
Yes, there had been an affair.
Yes, there was a child.
Yes, he’d tried to “handle it” by keeping everyone separate.
Each admission cracked something I’d believed was solid.
