My Husband’s Mistress Got Pregnant

On my husband's birthday, I poured my heart into preparing a feast and selecting the perfect gift. Yet, he didn't come home.

Instead, I received a picture message—a snapshot of him at the hospital, standing outside the OB-GYN ward, his hand resting tenderly on his childhood crush's belly.

Beneath the photo, a message read: [The best birthday gift and a symbol of our decade-long bond.]

Furious, I called her. "Don't you know he's married?"

Before I could say more, my husband snatched the phone and lashed out at me. "Yvonne just wanted to share the joy of becoming a mother. Why are you overreacting?

"Yvonne and I have been best friends for over a decade. Your petty jealousy is disgusting!"

I once believed his busyness was for our future, but now I knew—he had been busy supporting the girl of his dreams through her pregnancy.

Clutching my own stomach, I bit my lip to stop the tears from falling.

Ten years of love had drained away. It was time to let go.

I turned off my phone and glanced at the meal I had spent the entire day preparing. Once steaming hot, it had grown cold and hardened over time.

I sent Caleb Harper a message on Messenger.

Me: [Are you really not planning to explain the situation with Yvonne?]

He replied almost instantly with a question mark, followed by several voice messages, each precisely a minute long.

I snapped a photo of the table, the carefully prepared dishes still neatly arranged, and sent it to him.

Me: [This is the birthday dinner I made for you, and this is how you repay me?]

Three or four seconds later, his response came through.

Caleb: [Reheat the food for me. Yvonne says your cooking smells delicious, and she can't eat anything cold now that she's pregnant.]

I stared at the message, the words so familiar yet now feeling utterly foreign. Did Caleb even realize what he was saying?

Yvonne Olsen was pregnant.

And me?

I sank onto the sofa, resting a trembling hand on my stomach. A tiny life was growing inside me, too.

For five years, I had endured countless fertility treatments, hundreds of painful hormone injections, all to give Caleb a child.

After so many struggles, I was finally pregnant. I had planned to surprise him with the news as his birthday gift. But someone else had beaten me to it.

Before I could fully process my thoughts, a new post from Yvonne appeared on my feed.

Yvonne: [I've had no appetite since getting pregnant, but the food my housekeeper made today looks amazing! Can't wait to eat!]

The photo attached to her post showed the very meal I had cooked, the one I had poured my heart and soul into.

My grip tightened around my phone as my chest heaved with rage.

They had humiliated me, making me their fool.

I jumped to my feet, hands trembling, and swept the meal into the trash. I discarded each dish, the clattering porcelain echoing through the room.

When the table was clear, I sat down and stared at our wedding photo.

Tears blurred my vision as I looked at the man I had once been so determined to marry.

Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through my lower abdomen. I doubled over, clutching my stomach in terror.

This child was my miracle. I could not let anything happen to them.

When the pain eased, I hailed a taxi and headed to the hospital alone.

No matter what had happened between Caleb and me, this baby was mine. No one would take them from me.

And maybe—just maybe—when Caleb learned I was carrying his child, he would come back to me. Perhaps we could piece our broken marriage back together.