I’m currently pregnant with baby number two, and I thought the old saying about second pregnancies being more emotional was just superstition. Turns out, there’s some truth to it. But in my case, it wasn’t the baby stirring up emotions—it was my husband.

For most of this pregnancy, I wanted to curl up, binge-watch terrible TV, and snack endlessly. Growing a human is exhausting, and I was ready to ride it out like that. But my best friend, Ava, had other plans.

“You need to get out of the house,” she insisted one afternoon, standing in my kitchen while making a strawberry milkshake. I was on the couch, feet up, hoping she’d leave me to my snacks.

“Why?” I asked, already knowing she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Because you’re turning into a hermit, Liv. We used to have fun, remember? I found this cool pottery place where we can make something cute for the baby’s nursery.”

I sighed. “Fine, but you owe me. Whatever this baby craves that night, you’re on snack duty.”

“Deal!” she grinned, and we set off.

At the pottery place, the lively buzz of conversation greeted us. Fifteen women, all booked for the same slot, sat around tables with paintbrushes and colorful mugs waiting to be decorated.

We found a table near the back, settled in, and began painting. As conversations drifted, the topic turned to pregnancy and birth stories. One woman chimed in with a tale that made my heart race.

“So, I was on a date with my boyfriend last summer,” she began. “We were at my flat on the 4th of July when he got a call—his sister-in-law was in labor.”

My heart sank as she continued, sharing how he insisted on leaving despite their exhaustion. “The baby was born that night, and her name was Tess.”

The brush slipped from my fingers. Tess. Born on the 4th of July. I was the Olivia she was talking about.

Ava leaned in, whispering, “Is this some kind of joke?”

My heart raced as the woman continued, oblivious to my turmoil. “Malcolm missed our son’s birth! He said he was babysitting his niece, Tess.”

Ava’s eyes widened. I turned to the woman, my voice shaky. “Wait, your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?”

She blinked. “Yeah, why?”

I pulled out my phone, showing her a picture of Malcolm, Tess, and me. “He’s my husband.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “But… he’s the father of my son, too.”

Everything inside me shattered. My husband had cheated and fathered a child with this woman, who had unknowingly shared her betrayal in front of me.

“I need water. Please,” I croaked to Ava, who jumped up to grab a glass.

Around us, the cheerful atmosphere dissolved into an uncomfortable silence. I couldn’t stay there.

“I need to go,” I muttered, stumbling out. Tears streamed down my face as I locked myself in the bathroom, grappling with the weight of the revelation.

I confronted Malcolm, who reluctantly admitted to the affair. Our marriage shattered into irreparable pieces.

Now, I’m eating chocolate and researching divorce lawyers. This wasn’t the life I imagined for my children. But I couldn’t stay with a man who almost missed our daughter’s birth because of another woman.

As Ava helped me to the car, I said softly, “This is it, Ava, I’m done with him.”

And I meant it.