Paula opens a package addressed to her husband. Inside is a tiny onesie and a letter with the words, “Our baby is due in two months.” But she isn’t pregnant.
Panic grips her. Is this a cruel mistake?
A twisted joke?
Or is her perfect life about to unravel in ways she never imagined?
Life has a way of testing us when we least expect it. Sometimes, it’s not the truth that hurts us but the stories we tell ourselves in the absence of it.
Mark and I had been together for 15 years and married for 13. We tied the knot when we were both 26, had two kids, and had weathered every storm together.
He was my rock in a world full of uncertainties.
I loved how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, how he’d bring me coffee every morning without me asking, and how he still looked at me like I was the most beautiful woman in the room, even when I was in sweatpants with unwashed hair.
“You’re my person,” he’d whisper at night. “Always have been, always will be.”
When Emma was born, he took three weeks off work to help me adjust, learning to change diapers with the same precision he applied to everything.
When Jack came along two years later, he’d stay up for midnight feedings so I could sleep, rocking our son and humming softly.
Our marriage wasn’t perfect. No real marriage is.
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