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Two weeks later, I discovered my husband was cheating. Not a rumor. Not a suspicion. Proof—messages, photos, plans for a future that didn’t include me or the child I was about to bring into the world. I didn’t scream. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t even cry right away. I just went numb, like my body was functioning on instinct while my heart stepped out to protect itself.
The night my water broke, it was 3 a.m. I was alone in the apartment. I called a taxi because I didn’t trust myself to drive. By the time I slid into the back seat, contractions were already crashing through me, sharp and relentless. Then my water broke—suddenly, embarrassingly. I burst into tears, apologizing over and over through my sobs.
