A few days later, she started leaving for “doctor’s appointments.” Always her gynecologist. Always twice a week.
I didn’t dare ask questions at first — I didn’t feel I had the right. But as the weeks passed, my curiosity turned into dread. Was she sick? Was she seeing someone else?
“Sarah,” I said one night after dinner, my voice trembling, “what’s going on? You’ve been seeing your doctor a lot. Please just tell me the truth.”
She turned to me, calm but unreadable. Then she said five words that changed everything:
“I’m thirteen weeks pregnant.”
The room spun. My knees went weak. “Pregnant?” I whispered.
She nodded. “I found out three days after you told me about the affair.”
The “appointments” weren’t secrets. They were prenatal checkups.
The Strength I Didn’t Deserve
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