Chapter 1
At eleven weeks pregnant, I discovered that for eighty-three Sundays in a row, my husband had been playing father to another woman's child.
When the doctor turned the ultrasound monitor toward me, my baby was resting peacefully inside my womb.
A tiny, rapid heartbeat filled the examination room. I covered my mouth as tears sprang to my eyes.
This was my third pregnancy.
The first two hadn't even made it past nine weeks.
"Everything looks normal so far." The doctor handed me the ultrasound photo. "You can bring the baby's father with you next week."
I nodded and slipped the photo into the anniversary card I had prepared in advance.
Tomorrow was Grant's and my eighth wedding anniversary.
I planned to give him the surprise at the restaurant where we'd had our first date.
After I got home, I took Grant's coat from the hook by the entryway, intending to have it dry-cleaned.
The moment I lifted it, a sheet of drawing paper fell from the inside pocket.
The picture showed a blonde woman, a man, and a little boy wearing a birthday hat.
The three of them stood in front of a blue house, with the man holding the boy's hand.
Above their heads, the child had written in blue crayon:
Mommy.
Daddy Grant.
Theo.
I turned the drawing over and found a Polaroid taped to the back.
In the photo, Grant sat on a playground bench with the boy in his arms.
The child had his arms wrapped around Grant's neck as Grant lowered his head and kissed his forehead.
A date was written in the bottom-right corner. Beneath it was another line in a woman's handwriting:
"Sunday No. 83. Theo says this was the happiest day of his life."
Eighty-three Sundays. Almost nineteen months.
For the past nineteen months, Grant had gone out every Sunday.
He said he was visiting the cemetery to see his late brother, Daniel. Sometimes, he claimed he would stop by afterward to help Daniel's widow, Elise, with repairs around the house or problems at Theo's school.
I had never tried to stop him.
Daniel had died in an accident at sea five years ago. Grant had survived.
Whenever he spoke of his brother, the light would fade from his eyes.
I thought his silence came from guilt. So even when he missed my birthday lunch or skipped my follow-up appointment after my second miscarriage, I never blamed him.
Just then, my phone lit up.
Grant had sent me a message.
"It's raining at the cemetery. I might be home late tonight. Don't forget your medication. Love you."
I didn't reply. I took pictures of the drawing and the Polaroid, then opened the location app Grant and I shared.
The blue dot marking Grant's location wasn't at the cemetery. It was in a residential neighborhood forty miles north of the city.
I saved the address, shoved the ultrasound photo back into my purse, and drove there.
It was a white house covered in blue balloons, with a giant marquee number '5' on the porch.
I parked across the street, then quietly moved closer to the house.
Through the window, I saw the boy from the photo sitting on Grant's lap, cupping Grant's face with two frosting-covered hands.
Elise stood behind them, smiling as she placed a paper crown on Grant's head.
Everyone inside was singing "Happy Birthday."
When the song ended, Grant lifted the boy into his arms.
The child wrapped his arms tightly around Grant's neck and gave him a loud kiss.
"Dad," he asked, "can you stay here tonight instead of going back to Aunt Audrey's?"
The smile on Grant's face froze for a moment.
He adjusted his hold on the boy, his voice still gentle.
"Not tonight, Theo. I have other things to take care of tomorrow."
At that moment, Elise turned her head and saw me through the window.
She didn't panic. Nor did she warn Grant.
She merely raised a hand and slowly drew the curtains all the way open, making sure I had an even clearer view of their perfect little family of three.