My Husband Had a One-Year-Old Daughter While I Was Still Pregnant! Oops, Marriage Over Chapter 01

My Husband Had a One-Year-Old Daughter While I Was Still Pregnant! Oops, Marriage Over Chapter 01

Three months pregnant, I was curled up on the couch streaming shows on my husband’s tablet when I accidentally swiped into his Quora account.

His homepage was filled with pregnancy-related questions:

[How do you help your wife with morning sickness?]

[First-time dad here—how do I come across as calm and dependable?]

I laughed softly to myself, a warm sweetness blooming in my chest.

Two months ago, when I’d handed Derek the positive pregnancy test, his reaction had been almost underwhelming—a brief nod, a measured smile, like he’d just been told the weather forecast.

Turns out that whole cool, collected act was exactly that. An act.

I kept scrolling, curious to see how much secret homework he’d been doing behind my back.

That’s when I found the baby photos.

He’d replied to several strangers who had congratulated him, and in each reply, he’d attached the same picture: a newborn’s tiny hand wrapped around his finger. On that finger sat a wedding ring.

[Thanks for all the kind words, everyone. Our little girl arrived safe and sound. She has her mother’s eyes.]

I stopped breathing.

I zoomed in on the photo.

My eyes locked onto the ring. It was our wedding band—no question about it.

When we’d gotten married, my parents had been against it. They thought Derek was nothing but a broke college kid with no prospects. I’d snuck out in the middle of the night, stolen my own documents from the filing cabinet, and dragged him to the courthouse. My parents cut me off entirely after that.

Walking out of that courthouse with nothing, we’d stopped at a pawnshop down the block and bought a pair of matching silver bands for fifty bucks.

He’d slid one onto my finger with red-rimmed eyes and sworn he’d be good to me for the rest of his life.

Over the years, as the company grew and we upgraded houses one after another, those cheap little bands never left our fingers. I used to brag about them to anyone who would listen—proof that we’d made it through the hard times together.

Now they were the cruelest slap in the face I’d ever received.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and kept scrolling, forcing myself to read every question he’d posted—every ounce of worry and care he’d poured out for another woman’s pregnancy.

[My wife’s pelvic pain is really bad in the third trimester. What kind of massage helps?]

[She can’t keep anything down because of morning sickness. Anyone have some easy recipes that might help?]

A month ago, I’d been on the verge of a miscarriage. The nausea was so bad that even a sip of water came right back up as acid. Derek had been sitting right beside me. He glanced at his watch and said:

“Try to push through it, babe. I’ve got a meeting first thing tomorrow.”

So it wasn’t that he didn’t know how to take care of a pregnant woman.

He just wasn’t taking care of me.

I sat on that couch all night. Didn’t move. Didn’t sleep.

At eight the next morning, the front door opened.

Derek walked in carrying a bag from my favorite breakfast burrito place. He handed it to me, then casually draped his arm around my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re up early. Eat these while they’re hot.”

I didn’t touch the bag. I just looked up at him, eyes locked on his.

“Derek, is there anything you’ve been hiding from me?”

His hands froze mid-motion, halfway through unwrapping the bag.

A flicker of panic crossed his face—just a flash—before it smoothed into a tired, indulgent smile.

“What are you overthinking now? Did you not sleep well? Pregnant women are so sensitive.”

He tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear.

“Babe, my life is a straight line between the office and you. What could I possibly be hiding?”

“Last night’s emergency at work,” I said. “How did that go?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh.

“Up half the night putting out fires. Managed to save the deal, but I’m wiped. I’m gonna take a shower and crash for a bit. Just grab lunch on your own, okay?”

He disappeared into the bathroom. After his shower, he went straight to the bedroom and lay down.

Within ten minutes, I could hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing.

I walked into the bedroom and picked up his phone from the nightstand.

In ten years of marriage, this was the first time I had ever touched his phone.