Chapter 3
I woke the next morning with nausea so sharp that I barely reached the bathroom.
For several minutes, I knelt on the tile floor and blamed the nausea on the previous night—the shock, the lack of sleep and the image of Ethan holding another woman’s daughter in a hospital chair.
By nine, I was at St. Peter’s pretending nothing had happened.
I approved supply orders, answered two teachers’ questions and sat through half a staffing meeting before the room tilted.
Rachel Morgan, St. Peter’s senior administrator, caught my elbow.
“You’re white as a sheet.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“You nearly fainted.”
“I’m fine.”
She gave me the look she usually reserved for parents who insisted their feverish children could stay in class.
An hour later, I was sitting in my doctor’s office.
I expected her to tell me stress had aggravated my fibroids.
Instead, after reviewing my chart, she asked, “When was your last period?”
I opened my mouth and stopped.
With the school purchase, inspections and closing paperwork, I had stopped keeping track.
“Maybe six weeks ago.”
She looked at me.
“Is pregnancy possible?”
A bitter laugh almost escaped me.
“I have fibroids.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I looked down at my hands.
Ethan and I had stopped actively trying years ago, but we had never been careful.
After enough disappointment, hope had simply become too exhausting.
“I suppose it’s possible.”
She ordered bloodwork.
I answered emails while I waited because staring at the wall felt worse.
When she returned, she closed the door behind her.
“Natalie.”
Something in her voice made me put my phone down.
“Your pregnancy test is positive.”
For a second, I thought I had misunderstood her.
“What?”
“You’re pregnant.”
I stared at her.
“But you said—”
“I said your fibroids could make conception more difficult. I never said impossible.”
The room became painfully quiet.
Yesterday, I had discovered that my husband had already been a father for 2,190 days.
Today, I learned I was carrying his child.
During the first years of our marriage, I had imagined this moment countless times.
I would call Ethan, cry against his chest and watch his face when I told him he was finally going to be a father.
Except he was already a father.
He had simply hidden it from me.
The doctor explained that it was early and that my history meant we would monitor the pregnancy carefully.
I heard enough to understand that I was approximately six weeks along.
When she asked whether I wanted a printed copy for my husband, I looked at the report in her hand.
“No.”
The answer came easier than I expected.
Outside the clinic, I sat in my car with the envelope resting on my lap.
My phone vibrated.
Ethan.
Saturday may run later than expected. The client wants dinner afterward. Don’t wait for me.
I read the message twice.
Inside my bag was proof that after years of believing motherhood might never happen for me, I was pregnant with his child.
And Ethan was already making excuses so he could spend Saturday with the two children he had hidden for six years.
I folded the report and placed it deeper inside my bag.
He had kept two children from me for 2,190 days. For now, I would keep one truth from him.
Ethan was going to be a father again, and he did not know it yet.