Chapter 2

I don't remember the drive home from the police station. My mother had arrived sometime during my interview with Detective Miller, her face pale and drawn as she guided me to her car. The entire ride passed in silence—what could possibly be said? My world had collapsed twice in one night: first with Mark's death, then with the revelation of his betrayal.

When we reached our apartment—my apartment now—I froze at the threshold. The celebration dinner still sat on the table, candles burned down to stubs, the remnants of the meal I'd prepared with such hope now cold and forgotten. The salmon I'd so carefully seasoned. The wine I wouldn't have drunk anyway because of the baby. The baby Mark would never know about.

"I'll clean this up," my mother said softly, touching my shoulder.

"No," I whispered, pulling away. "Just... leave it."

I walked past the dining room, past the kitchen where I'd hummed happily just hours before, and into our bedroom. Mark's scent still lingered on his pillow. I collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, clutching his pillow to my chest, and finally let the tears come.

I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes burned. I cried for the husband I'd lost, for the life I'd thought we had, for the child who would grow up fatherless. I cried until dawn broke, pale light filtering through the blinds, illuminating a world that somehow still existed when mine had been destroyed.

My mother found me there, staring blankly at the ceiling, tear tracks dried on my cheeks.

"Katherine," she said, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. "We need to talk about what happens next."

I turned to look at her, this woman who had raised me alone after my father left when I was twelve. She was practical, resilient—qualities I'd always admired. But now, her pragmatism felt like sandpaper against my raw emotions.

"There's nothing to talk about," I said, my voice hoarse from crying.

"There's the baby," she replied, her eyes dropping to my still-flat stomach. "Katherine, you need to think about this carefully. You're young. You can start fresh."

It took a moment for her words to register. When they did, I sat up abruptly.

"Are you suggesting I terminate my pregnancy?"

She didn't flinch. "I'm suggesting you consider all your options. Do you really want to raise a child alone? A constant reminder of a man who betrayed you?"

"This baby is mine," I said, my hand moving protectively to my abdomen. "Not just his."

"You're emotional right now—"

"Of course I'm emotional!" My voice rose, cracking with the strain. "My husband is dead. I just found out he was cheating on me for a year. But this baby is innocent in all of this."

My mother sighed, reaching for my hand. I pulled away.

"I'm just trying to help you see clearly," she said. "Being a single mother is hard, Katherine. I should know."

"I'm not you," I said, the words sharper than I intended. "And this isn't the same situation. I want this baby. End of discussion."

She stood, smoothing her skirt with practiced precision. "I'll stay for a few days to help you sort things out."

"No," I said firmly. "I need to be alone. Please, just go."

Hurt flashed across her face, but she nodded stiffly. "Call me when you're ready to talk sensibly."

After she left, the apartment fell into a silence so complete it seemed to have weight. I moved through the following days like a ghost, arranging the funeral, notifying Mark's colleagues, mechanically responding to messages of condolence. I told no one about the affair. I told no one about the baby. Both secrets sat heavy in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

A week after the accident, I forced myself to return to work. I was an interior designer at a small firm specializing in residential spaces. My colleagues greeted me with awkward sympathy, eyes darting away when I looked at them directly. I appreciated their attempts at normalcy, the way they included me in meetings but didn't push me to contribute.

Until the Hendersons' project.

"Katherine, since you've been working with the Hendersons from the beginning, maybe you could walk us through their vision for the nursery?" My boss's voice was gentle, careful.

The nursery. The Hendersons were expecting their first child—a little girl. They wanted a fairy tale forest theme with soft greens and golds.

I opened my portfolio, flipping to the sketches I'd made just two weeks ago. The room that would welcome their daughter home. A room I'd designed with secret envy, imagining someday creating a similar space for my own child.

"They want..." My voice caught. I cleared my throat and tried again. "They want a space that feels magical but grows with the child."

The words stuck in my throat. All I could see was the future I'd planned with Mark—the nursery we would have created together, the life we would have built. A future that had never been real.

"Excuse me," I managed to whisper before bolting from the conference room.

I barely made it to the bathroom before the sobs overtook me. I locked myself in a stall, pressing my fist against my mouth to muffle the sound. This was why my mother wanted me to "start fresh"—because every moment of this pregnancy would be tangled with grief and betrayal. Because every milestone would be a reminder of what should have been.

But as I sat there, arms wrapped around myself, I felt a fierce, unexpected surge of protectiveness. This child was mine. This child was real. And I would find a way forward, even if I couldn't see it yet.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of casseroles and condolences. Neighbors I barely knew appeared at my door with food and sympathy. Linda Gable from next door brought over a lasagna and stayed for tea, her kind eyes watching me carefully as she spoke of what a tragedy it was, how young Mark had been, what a lovely couple we'd made.

"Such a terrible accident," she said, shaking her head. "And that poor woman too. Two families destroyed in one night."

I nodded mechanically, wondering what she would think if she knew the truth. If she knew that the "poor woman" had been sleeping with my husband for a year. If she knew that while I'd been planning for our future, Mark had been building a separate life with someone else.

But I said nothing, just accepted her sympathy with a tight smile and thanked her for the lasagna. Another secret to carry. Another weight on my chest.

That night, I stood in the doorway of what would become the nursery—currently Mark's home office. His presence lingered here more than anywhere else in the apartment: his books, his papers, the faint scent of his cologne. Soon I would need to pack it all away, transform this space for our child.

Our child. My child.

I placed my hand on my stomach, still flat but harboring the most precious secret.

"It's just us now," I whispered. "But we're going to be okay."