When my husband came back months after leaving me for his pregnant mistress, he looked like a man who had finally learned what regret felt like. He stood on my porch with a duffel bag, dark circles under his eyes, and one request: “Please, take me back.” I let him inside, but not for the reason he thought.
My husband came home on a Thursday at 6:17 p.m. I had just pulled lasagna from the oven, and our son, Noah, had texted that he would be late from practice, so I could place the time perfectly.
Her voice was low. Nervous. I couldn’t make out the words.
I heard the front door open.
“Wade?” I called.
He didn’t answer.
A woman did.
Her voice was low. Nervous. I couldn’t make out the words.
Wade stood there beside a young blonde woman I had never seen before.
I walked into the hallway, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
Wade stood there beside a young blonde woman I had never seen before.
She was polished, maybe half his age, and gripping the strap of her purse with both hands.
She was also very pregnant.
I looked at her stomach.