After fifteen years of marriage, I shattered everything I thought was stable. I cheated on my wife, Sarah — the woman who had stood by me through layoffs, sickness, and every challenge life threw our way. The affair had ended months before, the other woman gone, and I could have buried it forever. But the guilt was unbearable. One evening, as the sun dipped over our back porch, I told her everything.
I expected fury, shattered dishes, maybe even yelling. What I got instead was silence. She cried quietly, then walked inside and softly closed the bedroom door. That night, I sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling, realizing I had destroyed more than I could imagine.
In the days that followed, Sarah barely spoke. She moved through the house like a ghost — hollow eyes, distant nods, a silence heavier than any argument. I apologized constantly, offered therapy, even prepared for divorce. But then, three weeks later, everything changed.
Coffee on the counter. A smile when I came home. Favorite meals. Little notes tucked in my lunch, messages of kindness I didn’t understand. Tenderness after betrayal? Confusion gnawed at me.
Then came the revelation that stopped me cold: she was pregnant. Thirteen weeks along. She had found out just days after I confessed. The appointments, the calm, the gentle gestures — all were to protect herself and the baby from stress.
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