I remember the hum of the airplane engines, a lullaby that usually soothed me. Not this time. My stomach churned with a nervous excitement, a mix of anticipation and a deep, abiding love. I was flying across the country, cancelling everything, pulling strings to get the time off work, all to be there. For her. My best friend. My sister by choice. She was due any day now, and I couldn’t miss it. Wouldn’t.
We’d been inseparable since kindergarten, sharing secrets, dreams, even first kisses (with different boys, thankfully). She was the one who held my hand when my heart was broken, who cheered loudest for my small victories, who knew my deepest fears without me ever having to voice them. And now, she was about to become a mother. I’d spent months planning, buying tiny outfits, decorating the nursery from afar with her on video calls. This baby felt like our baby, a new little soul to love unconditionally. I was going to be the best auntie. The very best.
The flight was long. Every bump of turbulence, every slight delay, only amplified my impatience. I imagined her huge, round belly, the glowing exhaustion, the sheer joy in her eyes when she finally held her child. I pictured us, just like old times, giggling over baby names, me fetching ice chips, rubbing her back, whatever she needed. I felt a surge of warmth, a deep sense of purpose. This was what friendship was about. Showing up. Always.
When I finally landed, exhausted but buzzing, I grabbed my bag and called for a ride. The house was exactly as I remembered it, a cheerful yellow with a sprawling porch swing. My heart hammered with anticipation. I barely made it up the steps before the door flew open. There she was. My beautiful, pregnant best friend.
Francia Raisa at the Inaugural Rare Impact Fund Benefit Supporting Youth Mental Health at Nya Studios on October 4, 2023, in Los Angeles, California | Source: Getty Images
Her smile was wide, but something in her eyes… it wasn’t the usual sparkle. It was strained. Tired, probably, I told myself, chalking it up to impending labor. We hugged, a fierce, tight embrace. I could feel the baby bump, a living testament to the miracle about to unfold. “You made it!” she whispered, her voice thick. “I knew you would.”
“Of course, I did,” I said, pulling back to look at her, my hands on her swollen belly. “How are you feeling? Any signs?”
She shook her head, her gaze drifting to her husband’s study door, which was slightly ajar. “Not yet. But… can we talk? Just us? Before he gets home.”
A knot formed in my stomach. Her tone was too serious. What could possibly be so urgent? I followed her into the living room, a space usually filled with laughter and light, but now felt heavy with an unspoken weight. She sat down slowly, with a grunt, on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped over her belly. I perched on the armchair opposite, my earlier excitement replaced by a growing unease.
“I have to tell you something,” she started, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes, usually so bright and open, were clouded with tears that threatened to spill. “I can’t… I can’t bring this baby into the world without you knowing the truth.”
My blood ran cold. Truth? What truth? My mind raced through possibilities. Financial trouble? A fight with her husband? A health scare? But none of those felt right for this level of desperate confession.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, her gaze fixed on the floor. “The baby… it’s not his.”
Selena Gomez and Francia Raisa are pictured looking at each other at the Billboard Women In Music event on November 30, 2017, in California | Source: Getty Images
My breath hitched. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. NOT HIS? My best friend, always so steadfast, so loyal… A wave of shock, quickly followed by a pang of profound sadness for her husband, washed over me. How could she? And why now? On the verge of labor? This was devastating. For them, for their marriage, for the life they had built. I wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but I felt paralyzed by the magnitude of her confession. “Oh my god,” I whispered. “Who… who is it?”
She finally lifted her head, her eyes brimming, but it wasn’t just sadness in them. It was a raw, aching pain that mirrored my own sudden dread. Her lips trembled. She opened her mouth, and the words that tumbled out didn’t make sense. They couldn’t.
“It’s… it’s his.”
A hollow, echoing silence filled the room. His? My mind, reeling from the first shock, struggled to process this second, impossible one. His? Whose his? A name flashed through my mind, a name I knew intimately, a name that belonged to my entire world. No. NO. It couldn’t be. My partner. The man I loved. The man I was building a future with. The man who was supposedly waiting for me back home.
I shook my head, my vision blurring. “No,” I said, a desperate, strangled sound. “That’s not… you don’t mean… my partner.”
She nodded, a single, fat tear tracing a path down her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I swear… it only happened a few times. When you two were having that fight last year. He was here, comforting me after a doctor’s appointment, and I was so scared about fertility, and… I don’t know what happened. It just… happened.“
My world didn’t just stop. It imploded. It shattered into a million microscopic pieces, sharp and jagged, tearing through every belief I held. My best friend. My partner. The two people I trusted most in the world. Betrayal. A word so small, yet it encompassed the vast, bottomless pit that had just opened beneath me. The baby. THIS BABY. A living, breathing testament to their deceit.
Selena Gomez and Francia Raisa are spotted at the Billboard Women In Music event on November 30,
I felt a cold, burning rage ignite within me, quickly followed by an icy despair. They did this? To me? All those months of planning, of excitement, of selfless giving. All of it a lie. A cruel, elaborate charade played out while they harbored this monstrous secret. This baby… it wasn’t just their secret. It was my annihilation.
I stood up. Slowly. Every muscle ached with a pain far deeper than physical exhaustion. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look at her, at the swelling in her belly, at the face of the woman I once considered my other half. The thought of staying, of being here for the birth, of pretending to be an aunt to that child… it was unfathomable. It was a torment I couldn’t endure.
“I can’t,” I choked out, my voice raw. “I can’t be here.”
She reached for me, her eyes wide with a desperate plea. “Please, don’t go. I need you. I’m so sorry, I truly am. Please.”
But her words were just noise, background static against the SCREAMING SILENCE in my head. I walked past her, my legs stiff, my body moving on autopilot. I grabbed my bag, still unpacked, by the door. I could feel her eyes on my back, feel her silent plea. But there was nothing left for me here. My heart was a gaping wound.
I stepped out of the house, leaving behind the cheerful yellow exterior, the promise of new life, and the shattered fragments of my own. I called for a taxi, my hands shaking so violently I almost dropped my phone. The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror, concern etched on his face, but I couldn’t speak. I just pointed to the airport.
As the car pulled away, I glanced back at the house. The porch light was on, a beacon in the twilight. But for me, the light had gone out. Permanently. I was flying back home. Not to the life I had left, but to the rubble of what it had become. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that nothing would ever be the same again. Not for her, not for him, and certainly not for me. My best friend was having my partner’s baby. And I was going home to an empty, hollow future.
