After His Mistress Said She’s Pregnant, I Left

My mother was setting the table when I came downstairs. White plates. Silver forks. The good wine glasses she only used for holidays and special occasions. Valentine's Day counted as special in the Martin household. It always had.

"Talia, can you fold the napkins?" she asked without looking up.

I crossed the dining room and picked up the linen squares she'd ironed that afternoon. My fingers moved automatically, creasing each corner, smoothing each fold. Through the doorway, I could see my father in the kitchen, working a corkscrew into a bottle of red. He was humming something under his breath. He always hummed when he was happy.

I checked my phone. Still no text from Matthias.

He was supposed to be here by now. He came every year. We'd sit around this table, eat my mother's pot roast, and my father would tell the same three stories he always told when he'd had enough wine. Matthias would laugh in all the right places. My mother would bring out dessert. It was tradition.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

I looked down.

*Stuck at work, babe. Big deadline. So sorry. I'll make it up to you this weekend.*

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist. Hard. The pressure helped. It always did.

I typed back a heart emoji and hit send.

"Is he on his way?" my mother asked.

I slipped my phone into my pocket. "He can't make it. Work thing."

She paused, napkin in hand, and looked at me with that expression mothers have when they're deciding whether to say the thing they're thinking. She decided against it. "That's too bad," she said quietly. "Well. More pot roast for us."

I smiled. It felt like the right shape on my face, so I kept it there.

We sat down to dinner twenty minutes later. My father poured the wine. My mother served the food. I answered their questions about work, about the wedding planning, about whether I'd heard back from the florist. I said all the right things. I always did.

Halfway through the meal, I checked my phone again.

I don't know why. Habit, maybe. Or the feeling in my chest that something was wrong, something I couldn't name yet.

I opened Instagram.

The first story on my feed was from a girl I knew from college. Claire something. We weren't close. I almost swiped past it.

But I didn't.

The story was a photo of a latte with foam art, captioned *best coffee in the city* with a location tag. I recognized the café immediately. It was across town. The place with the brick walls and the corner booth by the window. The place where Matthias had asked me to be his girlfriend two years ago.

In the background of the photo, blurred but unmistakable, were two people sitting in that corner booth.

Matthias. And Scarlet Boyd.

Her hand was on his arm. She was laughing. He was leaning in.

I stared at the screen for ten seconds without blinking.

Then I set my phone face-down on the table.

"Talia?" My mother's voice sounded far away. "Are you all right?"

I looked up. Both of them were watching me.

"I have a headache," I said. My voice sounded normal. That surprised me. "I think I need to lie down."

My mother started to stand. "Do you want me to—"

"I'm fine," I said quickly. "I just need a minute."

I pushed back my chair, walked upstairs to my childhood bedroom, grabbed my coat and my keys, and left through the side door before either of them could follow.

I drove across the city with both hands locked on the steering wheel. The streets blurred past. I didn't remember most of the drive. I just remember the feeling in my chest, tight and cold, like something breaking in slow motion.

I parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the distance.

The café was warm and crowded. I pushed open the door. A bell chimed. No one looked up.

I saw them immediately.

Corner booth. By the window. Exactly where we'd sat two years ago when he'd reached across the table, taken my hand, and asked if I wanted to make this official.

Scarlet's hand was cradling his face. Her fingers were in his hair. His mouth was on hers.

It wasn't a quick kiss. It wasn't an accident.

It was slow. Intimate. The kind of kiss that meant something.

I stood there for three seconds.

Then I turned and walked back out into the cold.

I sat in my car for fifteen minutes with the engine running. My hands were shaking. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist until it hurt.

I did not cry.

I drove home. I walked back into the dining room. My parents looked up, surprised.

"Feeling better?" my father asked.

"A little," I said. I sat down. I picked up my fork. I ate the rest of my dinner.

My mother asked if I'd talked to the florist. I said I had. My father told one of his stories. I laughed in the right place.

When dinner was over, I helped clear the table. I kissed them both goodnight. I went upstairs to my childhood bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark.

I did not call Matthias. I did not text him. I did not scream or throw anything or fall apart.

I just sat there, thumb pressed against my wrist, and made my decision.