I was eight months pregnant, moving slowly but filled with a quiet purpose. I had packed a lunch basket for my husband, Ethan—his favorite sandwich, a lemon scone, a loving note. We’d been ships passing in the night due to his work, and I wanted to reconnect, to surprise him. The receptionist at his office building smiled and waved me through. Walking down the hall, I felt a flutter of anticipation. Then I heard a laugh from behind his slightly open door—a light, flirtatious sound that didn’t belong. My heart sank before my mind could catch up.
Pushing the door open, I saw them. Ethan was wrapped around a stranger, a woman with sharp eyes, kissing her with a passion I hadn’t felt from him in months. The world narrowed to that single, terrible image. When I said his name, he jerked back, his face twisting into irritation, not remorse. The woman turned to me with a cold smirk. Before I could process the betrayal, she moved. She shoved me, then kicked toward my pregnant belly. A deep, terrifying pain radiated through me as I stumbled. And then, over the roar in my ears, I heard it: Ethan’s laugh. The man I loved was laughing as someone attacked me and our child.
The office door burst open behind me. Ethan’s boss, Michael Reynolds, stood there, his composed demeanor shattered by the scene before him. His eyes took in everything—my trembling hands on my stomach, the overturned basket, the guilty pair. His voice was like ice when he spoke to Ethan, asking how he could allow such a thing. Michael called for security, had the woman escorted out, and insisted on calling an ambulance, his kindness a stark contrast to my husband’s cruelty. In that moment, I realized Ethan had abandoned us long before I ever walked through that door.
