Olivia thought signing up for a pottery class was just a fun, harmless way to pass the time while she waited for baby number two to arrive. What she never expected was that the class would lead her straight into a storm of shocking secrets—secrets that connected her husband to a betrayal so deep, it left her breathless.
I’m pregnant with our second child. People always say the second pregnancy hits you harder, especially emotionally. I used to think that was one of those silly old myths my mom loved to repeat. But now I know—there’s some truth to it. Except, for me, it wasn’t the pregnancy making me emotional.
It was my husband.
These days, all I wanted to do was wrap myself in a warm blanket, binge-watch ridiculous TV shows, and snack like it was a competitive sport. Growing a baby is no joke, and I was ready to hide from the world until delivery day. But my best friend, Ava, wasn’t having any of that.
“You seriously need to get out of this house,” Ava said one afternoon, plopping strawberries into the blender like it was a mission. She didn’t even wait for me to respond—just kept talking like it was already decided.
I was curled up on the couch, hugging a bag of cheese puffs. “Why?” I mumbled, not even looking up.
Ava gave me that look—the one that meant she wasn’t going to drop it. “Because you’re turning into a potato with anxiety issues. You used to be fun, Liv. Remember fun?”
“I think you’re confusing fun with pregnancy exhaustion,” I muttered, eyeing the milkshake she was blending.
“There’s this cute pottery place,” she said over the noise. “They do pottery parties. You can paint mugs, bowls, little animals—whatever. You’ll love it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are we doing this because you want to, or because you think I need therapy disguised as crafts?”
“Both,” she said with a wink, pouring the milkshake and sliding it across the counter. “Plus, it’ll be something cute for the baby’s room. You need a break from the house and your brain.”
I sighed, already imagining my feet swelling even more from standing too long. But Ava was relentless. “Fine,” I groaned. “But whatever this baby craves after the class—you’re on snack duty. No complaints.”
“Deal!” she grinned, pumping a fist in the air. “Already told Malcolm he’s watching Tess tonight.”
I blinked. “You talked to Malcolm?”
She nodded casually, sipping her shake. “Yeah. Told him I’m kidnapping you for a few hours.”
That surprised me. Ava never liked Malcolm. She tolerated him, sure, but they never had casual conversations. Still, I let it go. Maybe she was trying to make peace—for my sake.
The pottery studio was buzzing with chatter when we arrived. Laughter bounced off the walls. About fifteen women were already there, all surrounded by paint bottles, clay, and ceramic pieces ready to be brought to life.
“See? This is what you needed,” Ava said, nudging me as we walked in. “Color! Energy! Noise!”
I gave her a look. “If by ‘needed’ you mean sensory overload, then yes. Perfect.”
We found a quieter table near the back and started picking out pieces to paint. I chose a simple little elephant for the baby’s shelf. Ava picked a mug with hearts on it.
As we painted, the vibe was surprisingly peaceful. Women shared stories, joked about pregnancy cravings, labor horror stories, and breastfeeding blunders. I even started to relax. For a moment, it felt… normal.
Until a woman at the next table started talking.
She had dark curls piled on her head, long nails, and a confident voice that carried across the room. She was painting tiny sunflowers on a mug as she chatted.
“So, last Fourth of July,” she said, “I was with my boyfriend at my apartment, right? We were watching this old movie when he got this call—his sister-in-law was in labor.”
I stopped mid-stroke, the paintbrush hovering over the elephant’s ear. Something about her tone made my stomach twist.
“He jumped up like it was a fire drill,” she continued. “Said we had to leave immediately because his whole family wanted to be there when the baby was born. I was like, seriously? It’s midnight. Why do you need to be there?”
Ava’s hand froze. I could feel her staring at me, but I couldn’t look at her. My heart was pounding. This couldn’t be what I thought it was… right?
“The baby was born that night,” the woman added casually. “A little girl. Her name was Tess.”
I dropped my brush. It clattered onto the table, splattering green paint.
Tess.
That was my daughter. Born on the Fourth of July. My husband Malcolm had left that night, saying he needed to run to the store for ginger ale and stayed gone for hours.
Ava leaned closer, whispering, “Liv… what the hell is happening?”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
The woman laughed, still talking like she wasn’t destroying my world. “He missed our son’s birth, can you believe that? Said he was babysitting his niece—Tess—and couldn’t leave.”
My throat went dry.
Ava looked at me again. “What are the odds, Liv?”
I had to ask. I had to know for sure, even though my gut already knew.
I turned to the woman, forcing my voice not to shake. “Sorry—did you say your boyfriend’s name is… Malcolm?”
She looked up, surprised. “Yeah, Malcolm. Why?”
I fumbled for my phone and showed her the screen. It was a picture of Malcolm holding Tess at the beach. The three of us—smiling, happy. Fake.
Her smile disappeared as she stared at the screen. “Wait… that’s your Malcolm?”
“He’s my husband,” I whispered.
She stared at me like I’d slapped her. “He’s… your husband?”
“And the father of your son, right?” I added, heart cracking wide open.
She nodded slowly. “Oh my God…”
Around us, all the laughter died. Conversations stopped. You could feel the tension crawl over the room like fog. The women who had been laughing minutes ago were now whispering in shock.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Ava,” I croaked, grabbing her arm, “I need water.”
She was already on her feet, rushing to find a glass. Her face was pale, eyes wide with disbelief.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up, almost tripping over my chair, and stumbled out of the room. Tears blurred my vision as I locked myself in the bathroom and collapsed over the sink.
My husband had another life. Another child. And he had lied every single day since that night.
When I finally left the bathroom, Ava was waiting for me in the hallway, arms open. I let her hug me for a long time before whispering, “I have to confront him.”
She nodded. “I’ll be right there with you.”
That night, I demanded answers. Malcolm’s face drained of color when I told him what I’d learned.
He didn’t even try to lie. He admitted everything. The affair. The son. The cover-up. The lies stacked so high, I could barely see the truth anymore.
Our marriage shattered that night. I wasn’t angry—I was wrecked.
Now I sit on my bed with a giant chocolate bar in one hand and a laptop in the other, looking up divorce lawyers while Tess watches cartoons beside me.
This wasn’t the life I planned for my kids. I wanted a happy, stable family. Instead, they’ll grow up with a father who betrayed us all, and a half-brother born from lies.
But I won’t let this define them. I won’t let it define me.
I’ll build something better from the wreckage. Something honest. Something safe.
As Ava helped me into her car that night, I looked at her through swollen eyes and whispered, “This is it. I’m done with him.”
She squeezed my hand. “Good. You deserve better.”
And this time, I believed her.