I left for work early, kissed my pregnant wife goodbye, told her “have a good day,” confident everything would be fine.
Around 2 pm my phone vibrated. My son Jackson called repeatedly. I ignored at first, thinking it was something small. Then a message: “Dad, come home. I’m scared for Mom.”
My heart clenched. I left the meeting. I drove fast. Every stop light felt like an hour.
I reached home. My mother stood on the porch. Her face was pale. Her lips trembled. She didn’t look at me.
“Is Laura okay?” I shouted.
She looked up. “She’s fine.”
I felt a weird relief. Then she dropped the bomb: “She’s cheating on you.”
I froze. My wife. My baby on the way. My son crying behind the front door.
Mom explained: she came over to use our bathroom because her building had no water. She found Laura on the couch with another man.
I pushed past mother. The stranger avoided my gaze. Laura wept. Our son shook, hiding in the doorway.
“Why, Mom?” Jackson asked. His voice loud and small.
I gathered him into my arms. I felt anger. I felt grief.
Laura tried to explain. I couldn’t listen. I questioned if the child she carried was mine.
That night I drove out with Jackson. We ate a burger in silence. Outside, Jackson asked, “Are you moving out?”
“No,” I said. “We will try to fix this. But things won’t be the same.”
Weeks passed. Laura went to therapy. She tried to own her mistake. She said she didn’t know how it happened.
I waited for the baby. I waited for truth. DNA test loomed.
I don’t know what future I’ll have with her. I don’t know what future Jackson will believe in.
