Her Bump, My Exit

By month four of my IVF treatments, my husband's childhood sweetheart posted a picture of herself cradling her baby bump.

The caption? [Having a happy ending with my first love. A family of three.]

And there he was—his hand in the shot, making a cutesy heart with hers.

Oh, and the cherry on top? He was still wearing his wedding ring.

I dropped a comment under her post: [Impressive! ] I even added a thumbs up emoji after it.

Not even five minutes later, Rob called me. "This was all my mom's idea," he started. "She thinks IVF is too risky for you, too much to handle. When Anita has the baby, we'll raise it as our own."

I let out a short, cold laugh and hung up.

We'd been married three years—no kids. A doctor confirmed the problem was me. Blocked fallopian tubes. Treatments? Total flop. IVF was the only shot.

I'm thirty now and wanted a child badly enough to endure the injections, the swelling, and the endless discomfort. And just when things started looking up, Rob decided to drop that bomb.

No wonder Pamela, his mom, was dead-set against IVF. Now it all adds up.

Anita Cooke was Rob's old neighbor from his hometown. She still visited her parents there but had moved to the city. Twenty-six, no boyfriend, and the way she stared at Rob when we ran into her?

Don't think I didn't notice. I saw her game.

But hey, Rob and I were married, so whatever fantasy she was cooking up didn't matter. At least, I thought it didn't.

Never, in my wildest nightmares, did I think she'd agree to have his kid. Let alone already be pregnant.

When did this even start?

I just sat there on the couch, frozen. My head buzzed. The medical report I was holding? Now it felt like a slap right across the face.

By the time Rob walked in, it was pitch-black outside.

He flipped on the lights and froze when he saw me on the couch. "Why didn't you turn on the lights?"

I didn't answer. Just stared.

After a long, awkward pause, I finally said, "When did it start?"

He frowned, all fake confusion. "What?"

"The kid. When was it conceived?"

For a second, he just stood there. Then: "That night. The night you worked late."

Of course. Three months ago, during one of those accountant-life special editions—late nights, endless inventory checks. I'd worked until two a.m., dragged myself home, and Rob wasn't there.

When I called, his voice sounded off, and in the background, I heard a woman's soft murmurs.

"Oh, I'm at a bar," he'd said, "with clients. First meeting ran long."

I'd been dead tired and, honestly, he'd never given me a reason to doubt him before. So, I let it go.

Big mistake.

"So, it was that night," I muttered. "What the hell were you thinking? The second that baby's born, we're done."

"You're overthinking this," he said. "She wanted a