I’d been quietly suffering—alongside the heartbreak of infertility—for months, keeping every failed attempt to myself. So when a friend recommended a new fertility clinic, I booked an appointment on my own. I didn’t want to raise my husband’s hopes just yet.
Outside the doctor’s office, I thought I was alone. But then I froze: there he was—my husband, Jason—standing next to Olivia, his ex. She looked radiant and unmistakably pregnant. Panic seized me; I hid behind a magazine rack, desperate not to be noticed.
And then I heard him whisper to her: “She can’t find out. I told her I’m working late tonight. Just hold on a little longer… Same time next week?” Olivia simply rubbed her belly and nodded.
My world shattered in that moment. Jason had chosen to hide his involvement with his pregnant ex from me—the woman he loved—and to carry on as if nothing was wrong when he came home later. Everything I’d thought we were building seemed like a lie.
