My Therapist Husband Erased Our Baby From My Mind

I found the receipts on a Tuesday morning while Roman was in the shower.

Two hotel stays. Same downtown location. Three weeks apart. Both nights he'd told me he had late sessions at the clinic and would sleep in the office rather than drive home exhausted. I remembered those nights. I'd texted him goodnight with a photo of my dinner—pasta I'd made from his mother's recipe—and he'd sent back a heart emoji and told me he loved me.

My hands shook as I photographed the receipts with my phone. Then the call log. A number I didn't recognize, appearing forty-three times over three months. Calls lasting six minutes, eighteen minutes, forty-two minutes. The most recent one was yesterday, while I was at the farmer's market buying the heirloom tomatoes he likes.

I heard the water shut off. I set his phone back on the nightstand exactly as I'd found it, screen down, charging cable at the same angle.

Roman came out in a towel, hair dark and wet. He smiled when he saw me. That smile I'd fallen in love with six and a half years ago at a charity gala where he'd asked me to dance and remembered my name three hours later when he found me at the coat check.

"Morning, sweetheart," he said. He crossed to me and kissed my forehead. His hand settled on my stomach, warm through my shirt. "How's our little one?"

"Good," I said. My voice sounded normal. I'd practiced normal my whole life. "Moving a lot last night."

"That's my kid." He grinned. "Already restless like mom."

I watched him dress. Navy shirt, grey slacks, the watch I'd given him for our fifth anniversary. Every movement easy and familiar. He hummed while he knotted his tie. Some jazz standard I couldn't name.

At breakfast he poured my orange juice and set the vitamin bottle beside my plate without being asked. He'd been doing that every morning since I'd told him about the baby.

"I was thinking," he said, buttering his toast, "if it's a girl, maybe Iris. After your grandmother."

It was the first time he'd said a name aloud. I felt something crack open in my chest.

"I'd like that," I said.

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. His wedding ring caught the light.

I smiled back.

---

I drove to Roman's clinic on Capitol Hill with the photos burning in my phone. The whole way there I rehearsed what I would say. Calm questions first. Then the evidence. I wouldn't yell. I wouldn't cry until I had answers.

The clinic occupied the second floor of a renovated brick building with big windows and clean lines. Roman had chosen the space himself. He said light mattered for healing.

The receptionist told me Roman was out on a house call but his partner was available. I said I'd wait for Atticus Crawford.

Atticus met me in a small consultation room. Mid-forties, tidy beard, expensive glasses. I'd met him at clinic events. He always asked polite questions and remembered details.

I spread the printed photos across his desk. Call logs. Hotel receipts. Dates and times.

"I need to know if my husband is having an affair," I said.

Atticus went very still. He looked at the evidence for a long time. Then he looked at me.

"Dakota," he said carefully, "you've already done this."

I blinked. "What?"

"Six months ago. You came here with different evidence. Different woman. Same situation." He pressed his fingertips together. "Roman took you into his office. You talked for forty-five minutes. When you came out, you were smiling. You asked him about your dinner reservation that night."

The room tilted.

"That's not—" My voice came out thin. "I would remember."

Atticus said nothing. His silence was an answer.

I gathered the photos with numb fingers. My hands didn't shake anymore. They felt like they belonged to someone else.

"Thank you for your time," I heard myself say.

I walked out through the waiting room. A woman sat reading a magazine. Another stared at her phone. The receptionist smiled as I passed.

I sat in my car in the parking lot. Twenty-seven minutes, according to the dashboard clock. I pressed my thumbnail into my index finger until the skin went white. The pain was small and clean and real.

Then I drove home.

---

Roman came home that evening with flowers. White roses. My favorite.

"For my beautiful wife," he said, kissing me. He set a bottle of wine on the counter. "Non-alcoholic. Found it at that place you like."

He asked how the baby was moving. I told him wonderful. He made dinner—pasta, garlic bread, salad with the tomatoes from the market. We ate at the table with candles. He told me about a patient's breakthrough. I laughed at his jokes.

That night I lay beside him in the dark. He fell asleep in minutes, one hand resting on my hip. His breathing was deep and even.

I stared at the ceiling and felt the floor I'd built my entire life on dissolve beneath me like salt in water.