Pregnant and Cheated: My Baby Exposed Them

The temporary family units at the center weren't big—there was only a bedroom and a living room—but at least they were clean and quiet.

On the walk over from the main building, Ian trailed me like a tall, silent watchtower. He was never more than a step away from me. His eyes stayed locked on me, as if he feared that I'd vanish into thin air the second he looked away.

As soon as we stepped inside, things went strangely quiet.

Ian didn't sit down. Instead, he started pacing around the apartment. His cold, hard face didn't show much, but his gaze was razor-sharp, like he was running some kind of high-risk security sweep.

Very quickly, he went out to the balcony and came back with a couple of discarded cardboard sheets and a pair of scissors. He half-squatted on the floor and silently started cutting.

I was wondering what he was doing when I saw him pick up the curved pieces of the cardboard. He walked over to the sharp corners of the coffee table and the edge of the cabinets. One by one, he carefully taped the cardboard on, layer after layer, forming a makeshift bumper on every pointy corner.

He couldn't talk because his throat was wrecked, so he could only use this clumsy way of quietly checking every single thing in the room I might bump into.

[Wow. Even if Dummy Daddy's memories are scrambled, his instinct to love you hasn't changed one bit, Mommy!]

In my head, my baby boy's voice finally lost that earlier sharpness and turned soft again. [In my last life, after I was gone, Daddy did the same thing. He stayed up late, wrapping all the sharp corners in the house one by one, crying while he did it.

[Mommy, don't let his cold face fool you. He's even walking on tiptoe around you right now because he's afraid of startling you.]

Looking at Ian's tall back as he half-crouched on the floor, the nerves I'd pulled tight all day suddenly and inexplicably loosened a little.

When he finished the last corner, he stood up and walked to the table to pour a glass of warm water. He brought the glass over to me and held it out.

His eyes stared deep into mine. His Adam's apple bobbed hard a couple of times, like he was trying to force some words out. But in the end, nothing was said.

Ian frowned in frustration, and the tips of his ears quietly flushed red. He just awkwardly pushed the glass into my hands, insisting that I take it.

I took the water and sipped at it slowly. He stood beside me with his back straight, looking like a loyal guard dutifully guarding his post.

However, peace was usually just a brief reprieve before the storm broke.

…

Early the next morning, our short-lived warmth was shattered by a knock at the door.

The person at the door wasn't from some expert task force here to drag anyone away. It was Mr. Jackson, the director of the international crisis response firm where Ian worked. Jessica was behind him.

"Ms. Jewell, I'm sorry to bother you." Mr. Jackson's expression was grim, and he held a folder in his hand. "Because you suddenly showed up yesterday, Captain Goldman's heart rate and other metrics spiked in a highly abnormal way.

"Also… we received a call this morning from his mother—your mother-in-law—back in their hometown. She sent over a video and a signed statement."

My heart sank. I had a bad feeling about this.

Jessica pushed her glasses up her nose and said in a flat, businesslike tone, "In the video, your mother-in-law clearly states that in the first month after Captain Goldman went missing, you took 80,000 dollars in death compensation and started preparing to marry Jim Lane, who lived next door. As for the baby you're carrying… the father is questionable."

"That's nonsense! I never took any money, nor would I ever marry anyone else!" I shook all over with rage.

"The firm will investigate what really happened. But right now, to stabilize his condition, Captain Goldman has to go for a routine evaluation," Mr. Jackson said, with a sigh.

Ian couldn't follow all the complicated back-and-forth, but he sensed the threat on instinct. He moved to stand in front of me, shielding me as he glared straight at Jessica.

"Ian." Mr. Jackson pressed a hand down on his shoulder, his voice turning sharp. "Follow orders. It's just a checkup."

The word "orders" hit Ian like a branding iron. His whole body went rigid.

He turned to give me a long look; his eyes were full of unease. But in the end, he still let them lead him away.

There was no way I could just sit there. Supporting my baby bump, I hurried after them to the Memory Rehabilitation Department.

Through the observation window in the door of the evaluation room, I saw something that made me see red.

There were no high-tech machines inside at all. All Jessica had done was set a digital tablet down in front of Ian. On its screen, a recording of my mother-in-law, Molly Ward's shrill, venomous voice played on a loop.