Neither had I.
For two weeks, I begged him to end it. I reminded him of our life, vows, and all the years we had spent trying to become parents.
He kept saying, “I need time.”
Then, one evening, time ran out.
When Bruce walked through our front door holding another woman’s hand, I thought my life was over. Then I saw her stomach.
She was PREGNANT. Very pregnant.
Mia looked young, maybe 26.
She had long dark hair, smooth skin, and one hand resting proudly on her belly. Bruce stood beside her like he had every right to bring her into the house where I had cried over negative pregnancy tests.
Bruce didn’t even look ashamed.
“This is Mia,” he said calmly.
“As of today, she’ll be living here.”
I actually laughed. I thought it was a joke.
But it wasn’t.
Mia crossed her arms over her belly and smiled.
“This baby deserves a stable home.”
I stared at my husband. “Our home?”
He shrugged.
“You’ll be leaving soon anyway.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
Bruce sighed. “Paula, don’t make this harder.”
“Harder?” I repeated. “You brought your pregnant mistress into my home.”
Mia’s smile faded. “Bruce told me the marriage was already over.”
I looked at her. “Did he tell you I spent years trying to give him a child?”
Her eyes flickered, but Bruce stepped between us.
“That’s enough,” he said.
Something inside me broke at those words.
Over the next three weeks, Bruce made my life unbearable.
Mia took over the kitchen first. Then the living room. Then the nursery I had once decorated with trembling hope.
