Her Bump, My Exit

I dropped a comment under her post: [Impressive! ] I even added a thumbs up emoji after it.

Not even five minutes later, Rob called me. "This was all my mom's idea," he started. "She thinks IVF is too risky for you, too much to handle. When Anita has the baby, we'll raise it as our own."

I let out a short, cold laugh and hung up.

We'd been married three years—no kids. A doctor confirmed the problem was me. Blocked fallopian tubes. Treatments? Total flop. IVF was the only shot.

I'm thirty now and wanted a child badly enough to endure the injections, the swelling, and the endless discomfort. And just when things started looking up, Rob decided to drop that bomb.

No wonder Pamela, his mom, was dead-set against IVF. Now it all adds up.

Anita Cooke was Rob's old neighbor from his hometown. She still visited her parents there but had moved to the city. Twenty-six, no boyfriend, and the way she stared at Rob when we ran into her?

Don't think I didn't notice. I saw her game.

But hey, Rob and I were married, so whatever fantasy she was cooking up didn't matter. At least, I thought it didn't.

Never, in my wildest nightmares, did I think she'd agree to have his kid. Let alone already be pregnant.

When did this even start?

I just sat there on the couch, frozen. My head buzzed. The medical report I was holding? Now it felt like a slap right across the face.

By the time Rob walked in, it was pitch-black outside.

He flipped on the lights and froze when he saw me on the couch. "Why didn't you turn on the lights?"

I didn't answer. Just stared.

After a long, awkward pause, I finally said, "When did it start?"

He frowned, all fake confusion. "What?"

"The kid. When was it conceived?"

For a second, he just stood there. Then: "That night. The night you worked late."

Of course. Three months ago, during one of those accountant-life special editions—late nights, endless inventory checks. I'd worked until two a.m., dragged myself home, and Rob wasn't there.

When I called, his voice sounded off, and in the background, I heard a woman's soft murmurs.

"Oh, I'm at a bar," he'd said, "with clients. First meeting ran long."

I'd been dead tired and, honestly, he'd never given me a reason to doubt him before. So, I let it go.

Big mistake.

"So, it was that night," I muttered. "What the hell were you thinking? The second that baby's born, we're done."

"You're overthinking this," he said. "She wanted a kid. You can't have one. This baby will be, like... ours." He stumbled over the words, getting more annoyed. "Why are you blowing this up? I'm thirty! What's so wrong with wanting a kid?

"She's young, healthy, and willing to go through with it.

"It's not like we're losing anything. So why are you making it a big deal?"

I shot to my feet. "Rob Barne, this is an affair!

"I can't have kids, and if you want one so badly, fine—divorce me and marry her! At least then, you'd be honest about it.

"But what are you doing now? Treating Anita like some kind of baby factory? You think she'll just disappear after the baby's born?

"Let me clue you in—she's not going anywhere. She'll walk right through that front door as the mother of your child!"

I paused, trying to steady myself. "You need to figure out what you want. Because next month? I'm done. No more injections."

His face went dark. "Fine! Don't do it. There are plenty of women who can have kids with me!"

And with that, he stormed out and slammed the door.

I just stood there, my whole body trembling. It took me a minute to realize my face was wet.

I'd cried over him. Over this.

'Maya Lawson, when did you become like this?'