Years ago, I got into a relationship. But I recently found out he was married. For weeks, our conversations revolved around him begging and me pushing him away.
Last week, I found out I was pregnant. Shortly after that, his wife called me and demanded I meet her in person. At first, I ignored her.
I was scared. Not just of her anger, but of what facing her would mean for me. For everything I had convinced myself was real.
But she didn’t stop calling. She left me a voice message I’ll never forget. She said, “I’m not calling to yell.
I just want to look you in the eyes and understand what happened. Woman to woman.”
I don’t know why, but something in her voice made me agree. Maybe it was guilt.
Maybe I wanted closure. Or maybe deep down, I wanted someone to hurt with me. We met at a quiet café, the kind of place where no one really talks above a whisper.
She sat across from me, her wedding ring glinting under the dim lights. Her name was Nadia. She was surprisingly calm.
Her eyes were tired, but her voice was steady. “I’ve known something was off for a while,” she said, stirring her tea. “He started coming home late, acting weird with his phone.
I had my suspicions… but I never imagined this.”
I wanted to defend myself, to say I didn’t know he was married, that I wasn’t trying to destroy anything. But the words felt cheap. “I didn’t know,” I whispered.
“Not until a few weeks ago. And when I found out… I ended it. I didn’t want this.”
She nodded slowly.
“I believe you.”
That surprised me. She must’ve seen the shock on my face because she added, “You’re not the first.”
I felt my stomach drop. “What do you mean?”
“He’s done this before.
I forgave him the first time. We went to counseling. I thought we’d rebuilt something stronger.
But now, with you…” Her voice cracked for the first time. “And now there’s a baby.”
I instinctively placed my hand on my belly. I was barely seven weeks along, but I already felt protective.
“What do you want from me?” I asked. She leaned back, breathing deeply. “I don’t want revenge.
I’m not here to scream. I just want to understand what I’m walking away from. Because I am walking away.”
That hit me like a freight train.
“You’re leaving him?”
“Yes,” she said, with a clarity I admired. “This baby… he might try to use it to manipulate you, just like he manipulated me. But I hope you see through him.”
I was silent.
A lump had formed in my throat. Before she left, she reached into her bag and handed me a folded letter. “He wrote this for you.
He left it on the kitchen counter this morning. I didn’t read it. I didn’t need to.”
She walked away with the grace of someone who had been broken before, but refused to stay broken.
I didn’t open the letter right away. I went home and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at it for what felt like hours. Then, finally, I unfolded it.
His handwriting was messy. Like he had written it in a rush. “I know you hate me.
I deserve it. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t plan for any of this.
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