I need to get this off my chest. I’ve never told a soul, not a single living person, because to speak it aloud would be to make it real, and I don’t know if I can survive that. But it’s eating me alive. Every single day.
It started a few months ago. She, his best friend since childhood, called. She was pregnant. We knew she’d been trying, going through IVF alone after a bad breakup. We’d even offered support, taken her to appointments, celebrated her successful embryo transfer. We were happy for her, truly.
Then came the call. The call that changed everything. She asked him. Not me, not a sister, not another friend. She asked my husband to be her birth partner.
I remember the exact moment. We were making dinner, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen. He put her on speaker. “It would mean the world to me,” her voice, usually so strong, was trembling. “I don’t have anyone else. You’re like a brother.”
Sarah Paulson and Evan Peters speak onstage during the 77th Primetime Emmy Awards at Peacock Theater on September 14, 2025 | Source: Getty Images
I looked at him, confused, a knife in my hand, poised over a pepper. He looked back, a slight frown, then a nod. “Of course,” he said. “Anything for you.”
My stomach dropped. A brother? Was it really just that? I wanted to scream, “What about me?!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t. He looked at me, a quick, reassuring smile. “She needs support, babe. You know she’s alone. It’s just a friendship thing.”
I tried to buy it. I really did. He’s a good man. Loyal. Always there for his friends. But the knot in my gut grew tighter with each passing week. He went to her scans. He went to birthing classes. He’d come home talking about fetal movements, about her swollen ankles, about nursery colors. Things I felt like I should have been talking about with him, if we’d had a baby. Things I’d dreamt of experiencing with him.
I felt like an outsider, watching my own life unfold with different players. I’d try to join them, make dinner for them, ask about the baby, but their conversations had a specific shorthand, an intimacy I wasn’t privy to. They’d joke about an inside joke I didn’t get, share a look across the table that felt like a secret. It was just comfort, just long-standing friendship, I told myself. Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t be jealous.
The due date loomed. My husband had his bags packed – a small duffel with snacks, a change of clothes, a book. For the birth. He was sleeping in our bed, next to me, but his mind, I knew, was elsewhere. He was preparing for her baby’s arrival.
The call came in the middle of the night. Her water broke. He was up like a shot, dressed in seconds. He kissed my forehead. “Wish me luck,” he whispered. And he was gone.
Kori King pictured at the event on September 14, 2025 | Source: Getty Images
I lay awake, alone in our bed, for hours. I pictured him there, holding her hand, wiping her brow. Her pain, her joy. I imagined him being the first to hold the baby, their shared experience. I felt an emptiness so profound it hurt to breathe. Why wasn’t it me? Why wasn’t it our baby?
He called me when it was over. A girl. A beautiful, healthy baby girl. His voice was thick with emotion, a happiness I hadn’t heard in years. He sent a photo. Tiny, wrinkled, pink. A wave of relief washed over me, followed by a deeper pang of longing. She did it. She has her family.
I waited a day, then went to the hospital with flowers and balloons. My heart pounded as I walked into her room. She looked tired but radiant, holding the baby close. My husband sat beside her, beaming, his arm draped casually over her shoulder. It was a picture of a perfect little family.
I approached, feigning a cheerful smile. “She’s beautiful!” I cooed, looking at the tiny face. And then I saw it. A small, distinct birthmark, just above her left eyebrow. Exactly like his. My breath hitched. My smile faltered. My stomach churned. No, it couldn’t be. It must be a coincidence. A weird, unsettling coincidence.
I stayed for a while, holding the baby, trying to shake the chilling feeling. My husband excused himself to grab coffee. While he was gone, she asked me to hand her the baby’s birth certificate from the hospital bag. It was in a plastic sleeve.
My fingers trembled as I pulled out the crisp white paper. My eyes scanned it, searching for the name, the date… and then they landed on it. The line for “Father’s Name.”
MY HEART STOPPED. THE ROOM SPUN. I COULDN’T BREATHE.
Kori King pictured on September 14, 2025 | Source: Getty Images
There it was, clear as day. His full name.
It wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t a brotherly gesture. It wasn’t a friend supporting a friend. It was a lie.
My husband’s best friend asked him to be her birth partner because he was the father of her baby.
I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen, the paper in my hand, her eyes on me, wide and apologetic. I could hear the distant beeping of machines, the hushed hospital sounds. But all I could hear was the CRASHING of my entire world.
He walked back in just then, two coffees in hand. He saw my face, saw the birth certificate in my hand. His smile vanished.
I looked from him, to her, to the innocent baby in her arms. The baby who had his birthmark. The baby who had his name on the certificate.
My husband didn’t just support his best friend through childbirth.
He supported the woman he cheated on me with, as she delivered their child.
And I, his wife, was left to piece together the shattered remnants of my life, holding the proof of his ultimate betrayal in my trembling hands.
