Everyone knows the answer to “What’s three times three?” Right? It’s so simple. So fundamental. The kind of question a child asks, confident they already know the response, just wanting to hear you confirm it. But for me, for my life, that question isn’t about math. It’s about a silence so profound, a secret so heavy, it could shatter everything I’ve built. And the answer… the answer isn’t what you think.
I live a beautiful life, on paper. A house with a garden, a loving partner, a child whose laugh sounds like tiny bells. My days are filled with the kind of comfortable rhythm people dream of. Mornings bustling, afternoons quiet, evenings with shared meals and soft light. It’s perfect. Almost. It’s a perfect lie.
It began subtly, like most betrayals do. A slow, insidious creep of intimacy where there should have been none. He was always there, a familiar, comforting presence. My partner’s brother. We’d known each other for years, since before I even met my partner. He was the easy one, the funny one, the one who always seemed to see me, even when my own partner was looking right at me.
A disgusted woman in her living room | Source: Midjourney
We’d laugh, sometimes for hours, over nothing. A shared glance, a hand brushing mine a little too long when passing a drink. Innocent enough, at first. Or so I told myself. But the air between us started to crackle, charged with an unspoken understanding. It was a current I felt deep in my bones, a pull I fought with every fiber of my being. He was family. My partner’s flesh and blood. And I loved my partner. I did. I truly believed I did.
Then came the night. A family gathering, too much wine, too many shared glances across the crowded room. My partner was distracted, on the phone for work, as usual. His brother found me on the patio, looking out at the stars. He didn’t say much, just stood beside me. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was electric. He turned, his eyes searching mine in the dim light. And then he leaned in.
His lips on mine felt like coming home and falling off a cliff all at once. A gasp caught in my throat, half pleasure, half terror. It was wrong. SO WRONG. But the way his hand found the small of my back, the desperation in his kiss… I succumbed. The world narrowed to that moment, that forbidden embrace under the indifferent stars.
That night was the beginning. Or perhaps, the end of the life I thought I had.
A serious woman in her living room | Source: Midjourney
The affair wasn’t glamorous. It was stolen moments, whispered calls, clandestine meetings in coffee shops far from home. It was guilt that gnawed at my stomach like a hungry animal, every single day. But it was also an intoxicating rush, a feeling of being truly alive, truly desired, in a way I hadn’t felt in years. He understood me. He listened. He saw me. The shame was immense, yes, but so was the connection.
Months turned into a year. The lies piled up, forming an invisible wall around my heart. I was living two separate lives, one built on trust and comfort, the other on passion and deceit. My partner, oblivious, would sometimes joke about his brother and I getting along so well. He’d say, “You two are practically inseparable!” And I’d force a smile, my stomach twisting, a cold dread washing over me. He had no idea how right he was.
Then came the missed period.
A wave of nausea hit me, cold and hard, in the middle of a perfectly mundane afternoon. My heart hammered against my ribs. NO. IT CAN’T BE. I bought a test, then another, and another, hiding them deep in my purse. Each tiny pink line was a dagger, confirming my worst fear.
An angry man in handcuffs | Source: Midjourney
I was pregnant.
PANIC. All-consuming, suffocating panic. How could this happen? We had been careful. We thought we had been. The math screamed at me. The dates. They weren’t quite right for my partner. But they were PERFECT for him. His brother.
I spiraled. I considered everything. Running away. Ending it. Confessing everything and watching my life explode. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. He, the other man, was just as terrified. He wanted to do the right thing, he said. Whatever that was. He spoke of leaving, of starting fresh. But I couldn’t. My partner, innocent and kind, deserved better than that kind of devastation. And a child… a child deserved a stable home, not a broken secret.
So I chose. I chose to bury it. Deep. So deep I sometimes convinced myself it wasn’t there. I made the dates work. I manufactured morning sickness at convenient times. I smiled through the scans, through the baby showers, through my partner’s genuine excitement. Every kick, every flutter, was a bittersweet agony. My body, a vessel for a secret that was growing, kicking, living inside me.
A sad thoughtful woman in her living room | Source: Midjourney
When our child was born, healthy and beautiful, a perfect blend of me and… him, a profound love washed over me, eclipsing some of the guilt, if only for a moment. This innocent being, a product of my biggest mistake, was everything. My partner held our child, tears in his eyes, whispering, “Our child. Our perfect little miracle.” And my heart splintered into a million irreparable pieces.
The years passed. The secret festered, a silent cancer. Our child grew, bright-eyed and curious. Every time the brother came over, every time he held our child, a shiver of terror and longing ran through me. He would look at our child, then at me, and there was always that quiet understanding in his eyes. He knew. I knew. And no one else did. The weight of that knowledge was crushing.
Today, our child, with a mischievous sparkle in their eyes, came up to me, holding a brightly colored picture book. They’re a curious child, always asking questions. Always wanting to know how things work. How the world fits together.
“Mama,” they said, their voice clear and sweet, “what’s three times three?”
Two friends talking | Source: Midjourney
My breath hitched. The innocent question hung in the air, a bell tolling for all my hidden sins. My partner was in the other room, humming a tune as he made dinner. He didn’t hear it. He never heard it.
I smiled, a practiced, brittle thing, and looked down at that sweet, unknowing face. “Nine, my love,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Three times three is nine.”
But in my head, the real answer screamed. The truth, festering for years, clawed its way to the surface, raw and exposed.
Three. That’s me.
Three. That’s my kind, unsuspecting partner.
Three. That’s his brother.
And “three times three”? It’s not nine. It’s not a number at all.
A hopeful woman | Source: Midjourney
It’s the beautiful, innocent child standing before me, who is three years old today, and who will never know that the man they call Dad is not their biological father.
It’s the silent, living testament to a moment of weakness, a lifetime of lies. It’s the explosive truth that will one day rip apart three lives, and leave an innocent one shattered in its wake.
What’s three times three?
It’s the sum total of every single lie I’ve ever told, embodied in a three-year-old child who looks just like their uncle.
And I have to live with that. Every single day.
