Chapter 1: The Unwelcome Homecoming

Ten years of marriage, and not once did my wife get pregnant. Not for lack of trying, either.

But the college girl I was secretly seeing—Emily—got pregnant on the very first try.

When Rachel found out, she wouldn’t even talk about divorce. She just flat-out insisted there was no way the kid was mine.

So I showed her the pregnancy report, hoping that would make her see reason.

Still, she dug in, saying I was being played for a fool and telling me to get rid of Emily immediately.

After a few more attempts at a civil divorce, I gave up. I just brought Emily home with me.

I needed Rachel to understand, once and for all.

Even if she’d stood by me through all the hard years, now that I’d made it big, she was the one who had to go.

To be honest, when I brought Emily Turner to my front door, my stomach was in knots.

Rachel Carter, my wife, was usually gentle, but I honestly worried she might lose it—maybe even grab a kitchen knife if things got ugly.

I could picture her in the kitchen, hands shaking on the butcher block, staring out the window with that haunted look she got sometimes. Midwest winters are long and brutal, but a marriage that’s frozen over is worse.

Back in those years right after college, living in a tiny basement studio, I used to promise Rachel I’d give her a better life someday—and that I’d never betray her. Not ever.

I remember one winter, our heat was out for a week. Rachel made a blanket fort and told me we’d camp out until things got better. She always made the best out of nothing. The cracked windows, the hand-me-down furniture, the string lights she strung up to make the place feel warm—promises made under leaky ceilings felt like they meant more.

After my first business tanked and took all our savings, Rachel was the one who kept us afloat, working two jobs in a rented apartment. Every time I saw her exhausted smile, I’d promise again—like my words could cancel out the overdraft notices.

But now, I’d brought Emily—the woman I’d been seeing behind her back—home with me, ready to kick Rachel out of our bedroom and force her to divorce me.

My hands were clammy, my grip on Emily’s hand almost desperate. I had no idea how Rachel would react.

Still, thinking about the baby growing inside Emily, I felt a surge of courage.

My parents had waited a decade for a grandson, and so had I.

Now, finally, that dream was coming true.

But Rachel wouldn’t budge—so stubborn it made me furious.

Thinking that, I squeezed Emily’s hand, getting ready to push open the door.

My keys jangled in my sweaty hand, the porch light buzzing above us, moths circling in the cold air.

Emily smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and something floral—totally different from Rachel’s scent of coffee and warm laundry. But Emily was even more considerate than I’d hoped. She tugged at my sleeve and whispered, “Jason, are you sure about this? I mean, this feels kinda harsh to Rachel.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Even if you and Rachel don’t get divorced, I’ll still have your child…”

“I’m with you because I love you. I don’t want anything else…” she said, her voice trembling.

Her words made my heart ache. That shaky, soft voice just made me want to protect her more.

I turned and patted her head. “Silly girl, don’t say stuff like that.”

“I know you don’t care about money or status, but what about the baby?”

“Should our kid have to be called a bastard from the start?”

My voice dropped, and I felt embarrassed by my own harshness. My chest was tight, hope and dread tangled together.