Seven months pregnant with twins, my world shattered with a single message.
I had been folding tiny onesies, running my fingers over the soft fabric, picturing what my babies would look like when they finally arrived. My phone buzzed beside me, breaking the peaceful moment.
It was from Veronica—my husband’s boss. My stomach twisted. Why was she texting me?
A sinking feeling settled in my chest as I unlocked my phone.
The message contained a picture.
Eric, my husband, lay sprawled on an unfamiliar bed, shirtless, smirking at the camera like he had no care in the world.
I didn’t even have time to process the gut-wrenching image before my eyes landed on the caption.
“It’s time you knew. He’s mine.”
My hands turned to ice. The babies kicked, as if they sensed my distress.
Eric. My Eric. The man I loved, the man I had built a life with, was cheating on me.
With her.
I called him immediately. Straight to voicemail. Again and again, I tried. Nothing.
I lowered myself onto the couch, clutching my belly. My breath came in short gasps.
“Easy, babies,” I whispered, rubbing my bump as if I could soothe the storm brewing inside me. “Mama will take care of you. Always.”
I wanted to believe Eric would never abandon us.
I was wrong.