Between her dying father and a sick child, a pregnant Penelope thought she’d seen life’s worst… until she saw a message from her best friend on her husband’s phone: “I’m assuming since there hasn’t been an angry pregnant lady on my doorstep, you haven’t told her about us?”
I was exhausted but content that morning, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from being six months pregnant. My three-year-old, Ellie, had been battling a high fever, her tiny body trembling with each ragged breath, and I’d been her constant guardian through the long, dark hours.
Every maternal instinct was on high alert as my hands cooled her forehead, my voice a soothing whisper of comfort and love. Despite the exhaustion that made my eyes feel like sandpaper, I mustered the courage to face another demanding day head-on.
But my dad’s cancer diagnosis had been more than a weight on my chest; it was a crushing boulder of grief and impending loss that threatened to suffocate me with each passing day.
The sterile hospital corridors, the endless rounds of treatments that seemed more like desperate negotiations with fate, and the subtle pity in the doctors’ eyes when they gently told me he didn’t have much time left were overwhelming.
“Months,” they’d said. Months that felt like heartbeats slipping away. Still, I tried to stay strong… a promise I’d made to myself, my dad, my husband Dave, and my children.
Dave had been more than a partner. He was my anchor in a storm of emotional turbulence. We’ve been married for six years. We have two amazing kids and I’m six months pregnant with our third child.
Cynthia, my childhood best friend, had always been another rock in this chaotic landscape of my life. Our friendship was deeper than most. We’d shared secrets, dreams, heartbreaks, and now, she was a lifeline during this challenging period.
Always just a text or call away, her support felt as natural and necessary as breathing. Between Dave and Cynthia, I felt invincible, like I could navigate through any storm life decided to throw my way.
That morning, as I carefully climbed back into bed after settling Ellie, who had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, Dave’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. I assumed it was his work alarm.
I reached over to silence the device, my finger hovering just inches from the screen. But then, something unexpected happened. A notification popped up, disrupting the quiet morning with a text message that would shatter the fragile peace of my world:
“I’m assuming since there hasn’t been an angry pregnant lady on my doorstep, you haven’t told her about us? 🤭”
The words seemed to burn themselves into my retina. The sender’s name?
CYNTHIA.
My breath caught in my throat, trapped between disbelief and horror.
I sat there, frozen. My pregnant body felt simultaneously weightless and anchored to the bed. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but my fingers had a mind of their own. Dave’s phone wasn’t locked, so I opened it. The text was from the thread at the top of his messages.
I scrolled down, going deeper into their shared secrets.
The conversations started mundane. Work updates, casual check-ins. But then the tone shifted. Intimate references. Stolen glances. Coded language that spoke volumes of their affair.
My heart thundered in my chest as I read fragments that suggested a deeper connection. References to “that night,” to moments shared when I wasn’t around. Plans. Whispers of stolen intimacy.
