The Confrontation
One night, after another dinner she’d cooked with unsettling care, I finally spoke.
“Sarah,” I said, drying dishes beside her. “These appointments. You’ve been going a lot. I just need to know what’s going on.”
She stopped washing, turned off the water, and looked at me — calm, thoughtful, unreadable. Then she dried her hands, turned fully toward me, and said the words that shattered me all over again.
“I’m pregnant.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“I’m thirteen weeks along,” she said softly. “I found out three days after you told me about the affair.”
I sat down, dizzy. “The appointments…”
“Prenatal checkups,” she said simply. “They’re more frequent in the first trimester, especially at my age.”
I couldn’t breathe. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She sat across from me, folding her hands. “Because I didn’t know what I wanted yet. You had just confessed to betraying me, and then I learned I was carrying your child. I needed time to decide what to do — about the baby, about us.”
The Truth
I asked about the sudden kindness — the meals, the smiles, the notes.
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