Chapter 1: The Night I Found Out

When I found out my husband was having an affair, I was four months pregnant.

The shock hit me like a punch to the ribs. My hand went straight to my belly, feeling the faint flutter that had become a part of me. Four months along, and my world was already coming apart at the seams.

We hadn’t been close in a long time.

There’d been a distance between us for months—a slow drifting, like two boats caught in opposite currents. I could feel it. I’d told myself it was just the stress, the newness of pregnancy, his work, my hours at the hospital. But deep down, I’d felt it: something was wrong.

Just in case he had hang-ups about it, I even asked my OB-GYN during a checkup that day, and she told me it was fine after the first trimester.

She’d smiled at me, with that soft, almost pitying smile, and said, “You’re good to go, Emily. Just listen to your body, and don’t stress about it.” I’d nodded, relieved, thinking—maybe. Just maybe. This would help us find our way back to each other.

That night, I tried to cuddle up to him, wrapping my arm around his waist.

He was already half-asleep, his body turned away from mine. Still, I pressed closer, hoping he’d reach back for me. My hand rested on his stomach, my breath catching as I waited for him to stir.

Half-asleep, he let out a low, slurred laugh: “Seven times and you’re still not satisfied, you little insatiable…”

His words hung in the dark, and I froze, my arm dropped away. The sound of his laugh made my skin crawl. I pulled my hand away, suddenly feeling like a stranger in my own bed.

I never imagined my husband, Nathaniel Harper, would cheat on me.

Nathaniel. My Nate. The boy I’d met when I was barely out of high school. The man I’d trusted with every secret, every hope. I’d built my life around the idea that he was different, that we were unbreakable.

From college to the wedding aisle, I’d loved him for eight years. To everyone else, we were the golden couple.

People at parties would smile at us, envy in their eyes. “You two are perfect together,” they’d say. I believed them. I wanted to believe them more than anything.

Nathaniel was a respected philosophy professor at the university.

He wore tweed blazers and wire-rimmed glasses, quoting Kierkegaard at dinner parties and making my friends laugh with dry jokes. The kind of guy moms loved to brag about.

I was a surgeon at one of Chicago’s top hospitals.

My hours were brutal, but I loved the work—the focus, the rush, the sense that I was doing something that mattered. Sometimes, after a long shift, I’d come home and find Nate grading papers at the kitchen table, and it felt like everything was exactly as it should be.

We had a good thing going.

A brownstone in Lincoln Park, Sunday brunches, the occasional weekend getaway to Lake Michigan. We had the kind of life people post about on Instagram—smiling, effortless, picture-perfect.

Nathaniel’s family had this superstition: only one son every three generations. I’d gotten pregnant at the start of the year, and everyone around us was envious.

His mother had cried when we told her, squeezing me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. “You’re giving us a miracle, Emily,” she whispered. Our friends sent flowers, cards, tiny onesies. For a while, I let myself believe we were truly blessed.

I couldn’t think of any reason he’d cheat.

We had it all, didn’t we? Or so I thought. I turned the question over and over in my mind, trying to find the missing piece.

Until I unlocked his phone, scrolled through his messages, and saw a woman named "Lila." Everything clicked. My stomach dropped. Then I finally understood.

My hands shook as I scrolled, each new message a punch to the gut. There it was—her name, the flirty emojis, the late-night texts. I felt sick.

They’d mentioned her in passing at a barbecue once—Lila, the one who got away. I’d brushed it off. Everyone has a first love, right? But I never imagined she’d come back into our lives like this.

She’d been the queen bee of their high school, the girl every guy crushed on.

She floated down the halls—long legs, perfect hair, that laugh that made every guy forget his own name. Even the teachers adored her.

Nathaniel had carried a torch for her for three years.

He never talked about it much, but once, after a few glasses of wine, he’d told me, “She was my first heartbreak.” He paused, swirling his glass. “It’s funny how those things stick with you.”

At their graduation party, his classmates dared him to confess.

A basement full of sweaty teenagers, cheap beer, and the thrill of endings and beginnings. Someone shouted, “Go on, Nate! Tell her!” He did.

Back then, Lila was dating a rich kid, so she turned Nathaniel down.

“Nate, you’re cute, but we’re not right for each other.”

She’d smiled, but her eyes were cold. The kind of smile that says, ‘Don’t take it personally.’

“You’re small-town, I’m city. And you can’t even buy me Nikes, let alone those cute Adidas joggers.”

Her words stung. Even now, hearing those words, I could feel the humiliation he must have felt.

“So, wait until you’ve made it, then come find me.”

A challenge and a dismissal, all at once. She might as well have slammed the door in his face.

Nathaniel’s family didn’t have much, but he was proud.

He’d worked summers at the local grocery store, saved every penny. He never let anyone see how much he wanted to fit in.

That night, he changed his college plans.

He was supposed to follow her down south, but instead, he picked a school up north. A fresh start. A way to forget. Guess that’s fate.

And that’s how our paths crossed, though I didn’t know it at the time. Fate, or just dumb luck.

We met at a campus mixer—awkward, crowded, everyone trying too hard. I spilled coffee on his shirt, and he laughed. I liked his laugh. It was real.

The first time I saw him outside campus was when my dad brought him home for dinner.

He sat at our table, nervous, picking at the frayed cuffs of his jeans. My dad grilled him about philosophy, and Nate answered every question like it was life or death. I remember thinking, ‘This guy really wants to impress us.’

He apologized for his clothes, but my mom just smiled and served him extra mashed potatoes. He blushed, and I thought it was endearing.

Later, Nathaniel became my dad’s favorite student.

They’d stay up late in the study, arguing about Kant and Hegel. My dad would come out shaking his head, saying, “That boy’s got a mind like a steel trap.”

He started coming over more and more.

At first, it was all about philosophy. Then it was about movies, music, late-night walks. One night, he brought me flowers he’d picked from the park. “I know they’re not fancy, but they’re for you.”

We went from acquaintances to lovers.

It happened slowly, then all at once. One night, after a thunderstorm, he kissed me on the porch. I kissed him back. That was it.

Eventually, Nathaniel finished his master’s and PhD, and with my dad’s help landed a faculty position—becoming the youngest associate professor in the philosophy department.

My dad was so proud, he told everyone at church. Nate would pretend to be embarrassed, but I knew he loved the attention.

On our wedding night, Nathaniel held me like I was the most precious thing and made a promise:

“Emily, I grew up with nothing. Your dad gave me a career, and you gave me a family. I’ll owe your family forever.”

His voice trembled a little. I could feel his heart pounding against mine.

“I’ll always—always—be loyal to you, love you, and treat your dad like my own.”

He squeezed my hands, his eyes shining with sincerity. I believed him.

“If I ever break that, may lightning strike me…”

He laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but the words hung heavy in the air. I didn’t want to hear it. I shushed him before he could finish.

I felt sorry for Nathaniel.

He’d carried so much weight, so much expectation. I wanted to take it all away, just for one night.

Before he could finish, I kissed him.

It was soft, a promise of my own. We fell asleep tangled together, dreaming of forever.

His vow still echoed in my ears.

Even now, I could hear it, like a ghost in the room. A promise made in the dark, already broken.

But the man in front of me now probably didn’t even remember it.

I looked at him—at the way he slept, peaceful, untroubled. I wondered if he ever thought about what he’d promised me.

Moonlight spilled across his face.

I watched the way the light played over his features, softening the lines I knew so well. I almost reached out to touch him, but stopped myself.