While I Delivered His Baby, My Husband Saved His Mistress

Dr. Voss set her tablet on the counter and folded her hands. 'I need Ashton here for the next appointment,' she said. 'The baby's positioned lower than I'd like. If we need to discuss intervention options, both of you should hear it together.'

I nodded. 'I'll tell him.'

She made a note. Her pen moved across the paper with a sound that filled the small examination room.

Two days later, Ashton arrived on time. He sat in the chair by the window and answered emails while Dr. Voss measured my belly, checked the baby's heart rate, pressed her hands along my sides to feel for position.

'Good,' she said. 'Baby's moved. Still breech, but we have time.'

Ashton glanced up. 'So everything's fine?'

'For now. We'll monitor closely.' Dr. Voss pulled up the ultrasound images on her screen. 'I want to show you—'

His phone buzzed. He looked down. His face changed.

I knew the expression. Had seen it dozens of times. The tightening around his mouth. The way his shoulders drew back.

'I need to take this,' he said, already standing.

Dr. Voss paused mid-sentence.

'It's Oaklee,' he said to me, not to her. 'She's spotting.'

He reached for his jacket. Straightened his cufflinks. The small silver ones I'd given him on our second anniversary.

'Ashton,' Dr. Voss said. Her voice was level. Professional. 'We're not finished.'

'Sylvia can fill me in.' He was already at the door. 'I'm sorry. This is an emergency.'

The door closed behind him.

Dr. Voss stood very still. She looked at the closed door. Then at me.

I pulled my shirt down over my belly and sat up. 'You were saying about the positioning?'

She blinked. Returned to the screen. Walked me through the images. Explained what to watch for. Scheduled the next appointment. Her voice was steady throughout, but her movements were precise in a way that suggested controlled anger.

When we finished, she set down her tablet and looked at me directly.

'You're doing everything right,' she said. 'Everything.'

I nodded.

She held my gaze for another moment. Then she made a note in my chart—something she angled away from me—and walked me to the door.

I drove home with both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road. The baby kicked. I pressed my hand to the spot and kept driving.

That evening, I sat on the nursery floor with my back against the crib. My three children arranged themselves around me like planets. The eldest—five years old with Ashton's dark hair and my eyes—pressed a book into my hands.

'This one,' he said.

*The Runaway Bunny.* We'd read it yesterday. And the day before.

'Again?' I asked.

He nodded.

I opened the book. The four-year-old leaned against my shoulder. The two-year-old climbed into my lap, her small hands patting my belly.

'Baby,' she said.

'Yes,' I said. 'Your baby brother.'

I read. The mother bunny chasing her runaway child through every transformation. Becoming a tree when he became a bird. Becoming wind when he became a boat. Following. Always following.

When I finished, the eldest said, 'Again.'

So I read it again.

The baby inside me kicked against my ribs. The two-year-old patted the spot. The four-year-old's breathing slowed and deepened. The eldest watched my face as I read, as though checking to make sure I was still there.

I was.

When I finished the second reading, I closed the book and sat with them in the quiet. The nursery window showed the garden below, the lights from the main house, the long driveway disappearing into darkness.

None of them asked where their father was.

They'd stopped asking months ago.

Breakfast happened at eight. Lillian presided from her usual seat. I sat across from her. The children were still upstairs with their nanny.

Ashton came in late. Oaklee followed a few steps behind, her hand resting on her flat stomach.

He poured coffee. Added cream. Sat.

'I've made a decision about the sleeping arrangements,' he said.

Lillian set down her tea.

'Oaklee will be taking the master guest suite,' Ashton continued. 'It's closer to the elevator. Better for her condition.'

The master guest suite. The room with the sitting area and the private balcony. The room where Lillian's mother had stayed during her final months.

I spread jam on my toast. The knife made a soft scraping sound.

'The move will happen this afternoon,' Ashton said. 'I've already spoken to the staff.'

Oaklee glanced at me. Waiting.

I took a bite of toast. Chewed. Swallowed.

Lillian's teacup clinked against the saucer.

'Is there anything else?' I asked.

Ashton's jaw tightened. 'No.'

'Then I'll be in the library if anyone needs me.'

I stood. Carried my plate to the sideboard. Left the dining room without hurrying.

In the library, I closed the door and opened my laptop. Found the encrypted folder. The scanned contract. The wire instructions Lillian had provided five years ago.

I composed an email to my attorney. Three sentences. Precise. Clear.

I read it twice before sending.

Then I opened the household calendar on my phone. The shared calendar Ashton and I had maintained since the first pregnancy. Every appointment. Every milestone. Every ultrasound.

I scrolled through the upcoming entries. My final prenatal appointments were still there, marked in blue.

I refreshed the page.

They were gone.

I refreshed again.

Still gone.

I closed the app. Opened my personal calendar. Added the appointments manually, one by one, in a calendar only I could see.

My phone buzzed. A response from my attorney.

*Understood. Will execute upon confirmation of delivery.*

I deleted the email. Cleared the trash. Closed the laptop.

Outside the window, I could see the moving staff carrying boxes to the master guest suite. Oaklee stood on the balcony, her hand shading her eyes, surveying the garden like she'd already claimed it.

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm and counted to ten.

When I reached ten, I opened the book I'd been reading and found my place.

The words made sense this time.