Sorry, Husband Expired

Everyone knew Peter was crazy about me.

But five years into our marriage, he knocked up his mentor's daughter.

Crying, Cindy grabbed his hand. "I won't let Yuna know."

Peter just stared her down. "You'd better not. I'm only helping you because I owe your dad. Don't get any bright ideas."

She had the baby on my birthday.

Peter looked at the kid like he was already in love.

Then Cindy, all smug, texted me:

[Ms. Zander, don't you think my baby deserves a dad with a real title?]

I signed the divorce papers and caught a flight to Hampsburg.

Silver Creek Hospital, Rivera

When someone said Peter Cooke showed up at OB-GYN with a girl, I laughed it off.

Then I saw him—arm around a sobbing Cindy Bisch, his mentor's daughter—and my stomach tanked.

Phoebe Palmer, my old classmate from our PhD days abroad, came out with the prenatal report. She shot Peter a look as she handed it over. "Baby's fine. But she needs to chill. She's close to her due date, so watch her diet."

She kept it professional, but yeah, the tone had teeth.

Peter, totally unaware Phoebe and I went way back, just nodded all cool and thanked her.

I stood there, watching him walk off with his arm around Cindy. That's when my phone buzzed.

Hands shaking, I pulled it out.

Phoebe.

She shouldn't have sent it, but she did—an ultrasound, then a message:

[How long has Peter been hiding this from you?]

I didn't answer. Just opened the image.

[Gestational age: 38 weeks.]

So yeah. He'd been lying to me for a year. From the second he slept with Cindy to now—he never said a word.

Phoebe turned, spotted me, and sighed. She walked over.

Cindy was her last patient of the morning, and the hallway was dead quiet, almost lunch.

"Yuna... you okay?"

She grabbed my hand. That's when I realized—I couldn't even feel my fingers.

I turned to Phoebe, stiff as a board, and gave a quick nod. Just as I went to pocket my phone, a new friend request popped up.

[Ms. Zander, I think you know who I am. Want to talk?]

Phoebe called my name a few times before I finally blinked out of it.

"I'm fine. Gotta update some charts. I'll head back."

I bailed hard.

Inside the elevator, I finally tapped accept on Cindy's request.

She didn't wait. First thing she sent was a photo—Peter in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, apron on, cooking. He was wearing the shirt I'd just bought him last week. The one he made a big deal of putting on this morning.

[Yuna, Peter's worried I've lost my appetite, so he made my favorite chicken and vegetable stew.]

[He says he hopes the baby looks like me. But I hope it looks like him.]

She kept going. Photos. Videos. All of it.

One clip hit different—Peter in a suit, all smiles. That was from a year ago, right before my PhD graduation. He'd sent me a dress the night before, said it was custom-made for the ceremony.

But in the video, Cindy had my anniversary gift—his tie—wrapped around her wrist.

He looked sharp, perfect. Cindy's pale arms around his neck, that tie swaying as they moved.

And the next day, he wore that same suit to my graduation, handed me a camellia—my favorite—and looked at me like I was his whole world.