I’m pregnant with my second baby, and everyone kept warning me the second time would feel different. My mom predicted I’d be more emotional. She wasn’t entirely wrong, but the storm of emotions had nothing to do with pregnancy hormones. It came from discovering my husband Malcolm’s double life.
My best friend Ava convinced me to attend a pottery class, hoping it would get me out of the house. The studio was filled with women painting, laughing, and exchanging birth stories. Then a brunette mentioned how her boyfriend had once left her on the Fourth of July because his sister-in-law, Olivia, had gone into labor. My heart stumbled. My name is Olivia, and my daughter Tess was born on July 4th. I tried convincing myself it was coincidence—until she explained that six months later, when she went into labor, her boyfriend missed it because he was babysitting his niece Tess. Then she casually said his name: Malcolm.
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