Chapter 3: The Words He Said Out Loud
"I need to tell you something," Wesley said.
"And I need to tell you now, in front of everyone, because I'm done pretending."
The photographer took a small step back.
I heard one of my daughters shift behind me.
"Wesley, not here—"
"There's someone else," he said.
"There has been for eight months."
The air left my body.
"Her name is Diane.
And I've been trying to find a way to tell you.
But then you got pregnant, and I didn't know how, and now—" He stopped.
Looked at the box still sitting on the table.
"Now there's a son."
I couldn't feel my hands.
"Eight months," I said.
The words came out flat.
Like I was reading from a page.
"I'm sorry."
"Eight months," I said again.
"Our youngest was four months old when you started."
He didn't answer that.
My oldest daughter tugged at my sleeve.
"Mommy?"
I looked down at her.
Her face was searching mine for something — reassurance, an explanation, anything.
I had nothing to give her.
I put my hand on her shoulder and held it there.
"I think you should take the girls home," I said to the photographer.
My voice surprised me.
It was steady.
The photographer — a young woman named Kara who had photographed our second daughter's birthday — looked at me with an expression I will never forget.
Not pity.
Something quieter.
She nodded and gently gathered the girls, speaking softly to them, guiding them toward the far end of the garden.
Wesley watched them go.
"I didn't want it to happen this way," he said.
"Then you should have made a different choice eight months ago."
"I know."
"Does she know about the baby?"
He hesitated.
One second too long.
"She knows," I said.
"She found out last week.
I didn't tell her — she saw a message on my phone—"
"Stop." I held up my hand.
"I don't want the details."
He went quiet.
I walked to the table and picked up the gift box.
The tiny blue outfit was still folded inside, exactly as I had placed it the night before.
I had ironed it.
I had pressed the little collar flat with my thumb.
"I spent three weeks planning this," I said.
"I drove to four different stores to find the right shade of blue.
I stayed up until midnight wrapping this box so the ribbon would sit perfectly."
Wesley said nothing.
"I was so happy," I said.
"I was so genuinely happy."
"I know you were.
I'm—"
"Don't say sorry again."
He closed his mouth.
I set the box back down.
I straightened the ribbon.
Then I turned and walked toward my daughters without looking back at him.
I heard him call my name once.
I didn't stop.
That night, after the girls were in bed, I sat at the kitchen table with my phone in my hand.
I didn't call anyone.
I didn't cry.
I just sat there while the house made its small familiar sounds around me — the refrigerator hum, the pipes settling, the faint sound of my youngest turning over in her sleep through the baby monitor.
Then my phone lit up.
A message.
Not from Wesley.
From a number I didn't recognize.
*You deserve to know the full truth.
May you like
There's more than what he told you today.
Please don't delete this.*
