Hana Silva POV:
I never brought up that conversation in the café, nor the pills in the toilet. Anderson, meanwhile, became even busier after my pregnancy announcement. He worked late, took more trips, always with the same refrain: "It's only temporary, love. Once we have the baby, I'll be home. I promise. Just us, a family."
His words, once a comfort, now sounded like a mockery. I remembered Katlyn's chilling countdown: the "100-Day Farewell Tour" ending on my birthday. He wasn't working; he was playing out his perverse fantasy, meticulously planning his return to 'duty.' The thought twisted my gut. He was orchestrating his life like a play, with me as the forgotten prop. I laughed, a dry, humorless sound.
A few days later, a friend request popped up on my phone. Katlyn Pope. A part of me, the logical part, screamed to ignore it. But a darker, more perverse curiosity, fueled by a desperate need for understanding, took over. I accepted.
She didn't send a message. Instead, she opened her entire social media feed, a public gallery of her illicit affair with my husband. It was a brutal, curated expose.
There were pictures of them making pottery together, their hands intertwined, molding clay into grotesque shapes that mirrored my shattered expectations. Anderson, usually so reserved, was laughing freely, his head thrown back, a genuine smile illuminating his face. It was a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in years.
A post from New Year's Day: "First wishes of the year from my favorite person! So blessed. #MyLove." A photo of him, his back to the camera, holding her hand, standing on a beach. A beach I recognized from our last vacation.
Then, a series of pictures from a trip to Italy. gondola rides, gelato, ancient ruins where he held her close, whispering into her ear. He'd told me he was on a business trip to Japan. The lies piled up, each one a stone crushing my chest.
I scrolled through the entire timeline, my fingers trembling, my heart a raw, bleeding mess. Each post was a new stab, a fresh wound. Katlyn was careful not to show his face directly in most photos, but I knew his broad shoulders, the way his hair fell just so, the specific watch on his wrist. It was unmistakably him.
I mentally cross-referenced dates, recalling all the times he' d claimed to be "stuck in meetings" or "working late." Each excuse now revealed itself as a meticulously crafted lie, a cover for stolen moments with another woman.
My birthday. The day Anderson always made a big deal about. It was also, according to Katlyn's posts, their "anniversary." The audacity, the sheer disrespect, made bile rise in my throat.
I remembered the night he' d tucked me into bed, whispering sweet nothings, promising me the world. Then, before I drifted off, I' d heard his stealthy footsteps, the creak of the floorboards as he moved to the guest room. The next morning, he was gone, a text message explaining an urgent out-of-town business trip. Katlyn's feed filled in the blanks. Three days. Three days they spent in the guest room, while I, his pregnant wife, slept just yards away, blissfully unaware.
I scrolled until my thumb ached, until there were no more posts to see, no more damning evidence. The last post was dated yesterday. The "100-Day Farewell Tour" had officially concluded.
Hope, a thin, fragile thread, snapped. Despair, thick and suffocating, enveloped me. Two years. He had been living this double life for two years. The disgust I felt for him, and for myself for being so blind, was overwhelming. My body, already weakened by illness, rebelled. His touch, his very presence, now made me want to vomit. I recoiled from his casual kisses, his absentminded hugs. He, oblivious, attributed my aversion to "pregnancy hormones."
"I'll be here more now, you know. For you and the baby," he'd said just this morning, stroking my still-flat stomach. The words, meant to be comforting, sounded like a cruel joke, a twisted caricature of devotion. He was merely fulfilling his "duty," as Katlyn had so bluntly put it.
He' d once promised to clear his schedule once I got pregnant, to put me and our future first. Now, "work" was his constant excuse, a flimsy veil over his secret life. Katlyn's posts, a vibrant chronicle of their shared adventures, showed just how much "work" he was doing for her.
I was not his priority; I was merely the obligation he was returning to. The second choice, the predictable ending.
This absurd charade had dragged on for over half a month. Night after night, I lay awake, the pain in my stomach a dull ache, mirroring the agony in my heart. The cancer was relentless, a cruel companion in my solitude. He was never there. I was alone, staring at the ceiling, counting the hours until sunrise.
My belly was slowly beginning to show, a cruel reminder of the life forming within, a life I might never get to hold. I knew I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't let this go on. I had to face him. He, at least, deserved to know the truth. He deserved to understand what he had lost.
