The Polar Expedition Affair

Four years ago, I was seven months pregnant when I fell down the stairs with my husband's childhood sweetheart.

She survived.

My unborn twins—a boy and a girl—did not.

My husband, Reece Malcolm, was furious. That same night, he sent her away. Out of the country. Out of sight. Out of our lives.

Or so I thought.

But now, four years later, Reece appeared at the airport with her in his arms. Her belly was round with new life.

"Let's get a divorce," I said.

"Lucy, don't be like this," he replied. "You still don't understand how much we've sacrificed. I know you hate Erica, but the child is innocent!"

As if that justified everything.

As if that erased the fact that while I was kept in the dark, Erica was being delivered straight into my husband's bed.

Even Reece's own brother and sister joined in—pressuring me to accept it all.

"Your health isn't what it used to be," his sister said. "Erica just wanted to give Reece a child. Try to be understanding, won't you? It doesn't have to get this messy."

"You want a divorce?" his brother chimed in, scoffing. "Forget it. Bring a hundred copies of the divorce agreement and it'll still end the same way."

I watched Reece tear up yet another copy of the papers I had carefully prepared.

"You swore to me," I whispered, each word shaking. "You told me nothing happened between you two. And now you expect me to be a mother to your child with her?"

"Have you forgotten?" My voice rose, trembling with fury. "She's the one who killed our children. If they had lived, they'd be four years old today. Our son and daughter. Do you even remember them? Because I do. I remember every single day without them."

"Lucy, please," Reece said, his voice catching, trying to explain. "You don't know the full story… She left everything behind for this. She suffered for years, and now she's offering you her child. What more do you want?"

"Lucy, don't blame Reece," Erica cut in, eyes red with tears. "It was me. I seduced him. If you must hate someone, hate me."

Then, like something from a play too cruel to be real, she looked at me and said, "If… if you still need someone to punish, then I'll pay for it—with my baby."

With that, she turned and dashed toward the railing.

"Is this what you wanted?" Reece caught her in time, holding her tightly, as though she were something precious he couldn't bear to lose. "What was supposed to be a joyful thing—you've turned it into this chaos. Are you happy now?"

He held her like that, shielding her, and turned back to me.

"Lucy, after your miscarriage, the doctors said you could never have children again. Erica knew how much you loved kids. That's why she did this. For you. For us. She came to my room every night. For a whole year. Three hundred sixty-five nights.

"She endured it all just so our home could be whole again. She didn't care about her reputation. She did this for you. And now you won't even appreciate it? When the baby's born, you'll raise it. It'll be your child."

I was too stunned to speak. The tears just came, slow and endless.

Seeing me cry, Reece finally softened. His voice quieted. He reached out, gently, as if to wipe my tears away.

"Don't cry," he murmured. "You know how much I love you."

He stepped forward, as if to take me in his arms.

"Ah… my stomach hurts…"

Erica's sudden cry cut through the air like a siren.

Reece instantly pushed me aside and rushed to her, lifting her like she might shatter, and ran toward the hospital.

I stood there, dazed, staring at their backs as they disappeared.

I remembered the day I lost my children. How Reece had run to his beloved childhood friend then, too—whispering, comforting, holding her—while I lay on the floor, my white dress soaked through with blood.