Nine months into my pregnancy, I found out that my husband was keeping a pregnant woman

The phone on the dining table lit up.

Daniel was always like this—never cautious, never secretive, as if he were certain I would never touch it.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom. I braced myself against the sofa and stood up. My movements were slow, but my mind had never been clearer.

I tried a few familiar numbers.

Our wedding anniversary.

His birthday.

The date of our first date.

All failed.

In the end, I stared at the screen. My finger hovered for two seconds before I entered the date printed on Carla’s ultrasound report.

The screen unlocked.

I wasn’t even that surprised.

In his messaging app, her profile picture stood out unmistakably.

What was more bitterly ironic was that they were using the exact same couple avatar.

The chat history was overwhelming.

“I miss you.”

“Baby, when can we meet?”

“As long as I can see you every day, nothing else matters.”

I didn’t keep scrolling. Instead, I turned on screen recording.

Then I opened his shopping app.

The order list made me let out a silent, humorless laugh.

Prenatal supplements. Skincare. Cosmetics. Not a single thing missing.

The delivery address was always the same.

And the recipient was never me.

I took screenshots one after another, forcing myself to keep my breathing steady, afraid the baby inside me might feel my trembling.

After everything was saved, I carefully erased all traces and placed the phone back exactly where it had been.

When I returned to the bedroom, I lay down almost on my side. The night pressed in heavily, and my chest felt hollow and aching, as if something essential had been carved out.

Seven years of marriage—

it turned out to be nothing more than a stepping stone in someone else’s story.

The bathroom door opened again.

Not long after, his phone lit up once more.

Through the crack of the door, I saw him answer the call. In that instant, his entire body softened. He glanced toward the bedroom, then walked quietly to the balcony, closing the door behind him.

The sound of the glass sliding shut was soft.

But I heard it with absolute clarity.

At that moment, I didn’t cry.

Curiosity—thin, sharp, relentless—pushed me to stand up again. I held onto the doorframe and remained in the shadows, watching Daniel take the call on the balcony.

Through the glass, I couldn’t hear his words. I could only see his face.

It was an expression I hadn’t seen on him in a long time—relaxed, patient, even tinged with indulgence.

The person on the other end seemed to make a request. His brow furrowed briefly, as if hesitating. But not long after, he nodded, the smile returning to his lips.

In that moment, a chill slowly spread from my chest outward.

I turned away and dragged my heavy body back to the bed. The room was terrifyingly quiet, the air feeling as though it had been drained away, every breath suddenly laborious.

A few minutes later, he slipped into the room quietly.

One hand rested on my belly. The other brushed aside the loose strands of hair at my forehead. His movements were gentle—almost flawless.

“Baby,” he said softly, “something urgent came up at work. I need to step out for a bit.”

I turned my head and looked straight at him.

In that moment, I still gave him one last chance.

I spoke quietly.

“I’m not feeling well. Could you stay?”

As long as he nodded.

As long as he chose me—just this once.

Maybe then, I could still persuade myself to forget all the evidence.