Silva

ame even busier after my pregnancy announcement. He worked late, took more trips, always with the same

ng on my birthday. He wasn't working; he was playing out his perverse fantasy, meticulously planning his return to 'duty.' The th

of me, the logical part, screamed to ignore it. But a darker, more perverse

re social media feed, a public gallery of her illicit a

shapes that mirrored my shattered expectations. Anderson, usually so reserved, was laughing freely, his he

son! So blessed. #MyLove." A photo of him, his back to the camera, holding

ruins where he held her close, whispering into her ear. He'd told me he was on

a new stab, a fresh wound. Katlyn was careful not to show his face directly in most photos, but I knew hi

be "stuck in meetings" or "working late." Each excuse now revealed itself

was also, according to Katlyn's posts, their "anniversary." T

eps, the creak of the floorboards as he moved to the guest room. The next morning, he was gone, a text message explaining an urgent out-of-town business trip.

s to see, no more damning evidence. The last post was dated ye

disgust I felt for him, and for myself for being so blind, was overwhelming. My body, already weakened by illness, rebelled. His touch, his very presen

my still-flat stomach. The words, meant to be comforting, sounded like a cruel joke, a twiste

. Now, "work" was his constant excuse, a flimsy veil over his secret life. Katlyn's posts, a

he obligation he was returning to. The

y stomach a dull ache, mirroring the agony in my heart. The cancer was relentless, a cruel companion in

ight never get to hold. I knew I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't let this go on. I had to