Last Christmas, I Reached My Husband’s Parents’ Home Early, Holding My Hope Quietly Because I Was Pregnant. But Instead Of Joy, He Accused Me Of Carrying My Boss’s Child. His Words Cut Deeper Than Any Wound, And He Filed For Divorce The Same Day. Three Weeks Later, When I Returned With The Truth, EVERY SINGLE FACE IN THE ROOM TURNED PALE

The shopping bags slipped from my hands, hitting the hardwood floor with a muffled thud that somehow no one in the kitchen heard over Frank Sinatra crooning about white Christmases and chestnuts roasting on open fires. I’d arrived forty-three minutes early. Forty-three minutes that were supposed to be a gift. Extra time to surprise Matthew with the news we’d been praying for, hoping for, crying over for two solid years.

The baby we’d wanted so desperately was finally real. Finally growing inside me. Finally ours.

Except Matthew didn’t know that yet. And now he was standing in his parents’ kitchen on Christmas Eve, accusing me of infidelity.

Let me back up, because the last six weeks had been the strangest mixture of exhaustion and joy I’d ever experienced.

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