Her Bump, My Exit

I took a deep breath, my fists clenched tight. This wasn't on me—it was them.

'The second that baby's born, I'll file charges for bigamy. Let him rot in prison.'

Once the idea popped into my head, it stuck like glue.

Rob Barne, you betrayed me first.

Six years. We'd been together for six years—three dating, three married. I really thought we had something solid. Built on love, trust, the works.

I remembered when I scraped my knee, and he'd lost his mind, acting like I'd practically amputated my leg.

But when I was enduring injections, battling allergic reactions, swelling up like a balloon, losing sleep from anxiety, and shedding enough hair to clog a drain? He doesn't give a damn.

Worse, he's got time to roll around in bed with Anita freaking Cooke.

'Why? Why do I deserve this?'

Fueled by anger, I immediately contacted a lawyer. But the response shattered me.

"Gathering evidence at this stage will be tough. Unless he openly admits the child is his, there's not much to go on," the lawyer said. "For a court-ordered paternity test, you'd still need to be living as husband and wife—and you'd need witnesses."

The helplessness hit me like a sucker punch.

The lawyer continued, "Why not just file for divorce? It's easier to gather proof of adultery during the marriage. You may not land him in jail, but you can hit him where it hurts—his wallet."

I hung up, letting the idea settle in my mind.

Eventually, I told the lawyer to draft the divorce papers. Evidence? I'd find that myself.

Once I'd steadied my emotions, I went into Rob's study and powered up his computer.

I'd never touched it before—I trusted him completely. Or, I guess, I used to.

Thankfully, the password was our wedding anniversary.

How ironic. Every time he typed it in, did he ever stop to think about the life we'd built?

I combed through his entire computer but found nothing.

Then I tried his email. Rob had always been lazy with passwords, using our apartment number plus his initials for everything. That little habit worked in my favor.

And there it was: a trail of recent expenses from the past few months. Hotel bills, shopping malls, jewelry stores, clothing boutiques—it all added up to over twenty grand.

Nothing he said had been true.

Fighting back tears, I downloaded and saved everything. Once I had it all, I moved on to his chat app.

Lucky me—his account was set to auto-login.

The screen lit up with his conversations with Anita. The sheer volume was staggering, and as I started reading, my nails dug into my palms.

Since my infertility diagnosis, Rob and I had barely talked. Our daily conversations had boiled down to whether he'd be home for dinner—yes or no.

I'd chalked it up to him being busy. I'd even tried to be understanding.

But here? Here, he was texting Anita non-stop, overflowing with enthusiasm. They didn't just talk about meeting up—they analyzed their time together in nauseating detail. Plans, feelings, positions, dirty jokes—it was all there.

It was vile. And worse, it hit me how little I actually knew about the man I'd been sharing a bed with for years.

'Who even are you, Rob?'

I forced myself to save the evidence, making sure to erase every trace of what I'd done before shutting everything down.

Just as I stepped out of the study, Rob walked in.

My heart nearly stopped, and I gripped my phone like it was a lifeline. He glanced at me, and for a split second, I saw it—guilt flashing across his face. Then he closed the distance and wrapped me in a hug.

The tears came before I could stop them.

"Maya," he murmured, "I didn't want this either. You don't understand the kind of pressure I've been under. My parents keep pushing for divorce.

"But I can't. I just can't let go of you.

"I've already talked to Anita. Once the baby's born, she'll leave. She's just a young girl. Pregnant and unmarried—she won't be able to raise the child on her own."

The nausea hit me like a wave. I opened my mouth, ready to fire back, when there was a knock at the door.

"Rob, are you there?"

It was Anita!