The quiet hum of the dishwasher was the only sound in our apartment. It was late, past midnight, but I was still awake, staring at the muted glow of my phone screen. Another article about fertility. Another forum post about “miracle babies.” It had been years. Years of trying, years of hope, years of crushing disappointment. My partner, bless his heart, was always supportive. Always there. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to happen,” he’d say, pulling me close, stroking my hair. He was my rock. My world. We had built so much together over the past decade. A beautiful home, a life filled with laughter, shared dreams. Everything felt perfect, save for that one aching void.
He traveled for work sometimes. “Big client meeting, darling,” he’d explain, his kiss lingering a little longer before he left. I never questioned it. Why would I? We were us. Unbreakable. I trusted him with every fiber of my being. Sometimes, a tiny, fleeting flicker of doubt would cross my mind. Why so many late nights? Why so many ’emergencies’ that took him hours away? But I’d push it down. It was unfair. He worked hard for us. He loved me.
That night, the phone rang. It wasn’t his usual “goodnight” call from a hotel room. It was an unknown number. My heart gave a strange lurch. Must be a wrong number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something – a cold dread – made me answer.
Diane Ladd and Laura Dern on set (Top frame). Harry Dean Stanton and Ladd (Bottom frame) on set of the Samuel Goldwyn Company movie “Wild at Heart,” circa 1990. | Source: Getty Images
“Hello?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Is this [my last name]?” A professional, calm voice on the other end. Too calm.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is St. Jude’s Hospital. We have a patient here, [my partner’s full name]. He’s been involved in an accident.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. ST. JUDE’S. My breath hitched. He was supposed to be three states away, in a different city. My mind scrambled, trying to make sense of it. An accident? Here? NOW? I dropped the phone, my hands shaking so violently I couldn’t pick it up. He was hurt. He was dying. OH MY GOD, HE’S DYING! I snatched the phone back up. “Is he okay? Where is he? I’m coming!”
The woman on the phone, a nurse, I presumed, was trying to calm me. She gave me directions, told me he was stable but had sustained significant injuries. I didn’t even register what she said beyond “stable.” All I heard was ACCIDENT. HOSPITAL. HIM.
The drive was a blur. Every red light felt like an eternity. Every thought was a prayer, a plea. Please be okay. Please, please, please. I pictured his smile, his kind eyes, our future, dissolving before my very eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Not to us. Not after everything.
I burst into the sterile waiting room, demanding to see him. The nurse from the phone call recognized my name. Her expression was sympathetic, but also… guarded. “He’s in surgery now. We’ll let you know as soon as he’s out.”
“Surgery?” My voice cracked. “What kind of injuries?”
“He has a fractured femur, several broken ribs, and a concussion,” she listed clinically. “He’s lucky, considering the severity of the impact. The driver of the other car was intoxicated.”
I nodded, tears streaming down my face. “Can I… can I just sit with him when he’s out? Is he alone?” My poor love, all alone.
She paused. Her eyes shifted away for a second, then back to mine. “Actually, he wasn’t alone. There was… another patient in the car with him.”
Laura Dern and Diane Ladd arrive at the premiere of HBO’s “Enlightened” at the Paramount Theater in Los Angeles, California on October 6, 2011. | Source: Getty Images
My blood ran cold. The words echoed in the empty space between us. Another patient. My mind immediately flashed to the worst-case scenario. Cheating. He was with someone else. HE WAS WITH SOMEONE ELSE. The shock of it was almost as debilitating as the news of the accident. All those late nights. All those “business trips.” It all came crashing down, making horrifying sense. My rock. My world. My betrayal.
“Who?” I managed to choke out. “Who was he with?” My voice was barely a whisper, laced with venom and heartbreak. My sister? A coworker? Someone I knew?
The nurse gave a small, sad sigh. “A child. She’s in pediatrics. Just a few scrapes and bruises, thankfully. Quite resilient.”
A child. My mind reeled. A child? Not a lover. A child. His child? A child I didn’t know about? This was a new layer of pain, deeper, more complex. He had a secret family. All this time, while I was agonizing over our inability to conceive, he had a whole other life. A WHOLE OTHER LIFE HE KEPT FROM ME.
“Can I see her?” I asked, a strange, morbid curiosity overwhelming my shattered heart. I needed to see the proof. I needed to put a face to this unbearable secret.
She led me down a maze of corridors, the silence of the night broken only by the squeak of our shoes. My stomach churned. What would she look like? Would she have his eyes? His smile? Would she be beautiful? Would I hate her? No, not her. Never her. I was furious, devastated, but the child was innocent.
We stopped outside a room. The door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, I saw a little girl, no older than seven or eight, sleeping peacefully in the bed. Her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, and a small, pink teddy bear was clutched in her arms. She looked so angelic, so vulnerable.
And then I saw her face.
My breath caught in my throat. My heart didn’t just break; it shattered into a million irreparable pieces. It wasn’t just that she had his eyes. It wasn’t just that she had his slight dimple when she smiled, even in sleep.
She had my sister’s nose. My sister’s chin. My sister’s exact same freckle pattern across her cheeks.
Peter Travers speaks at the New York Film Critic Series Screening Of “Gone Girl” at AMC Empire on September 29, 2014. | Source: Getty Images
A jolt of ice water went through my veins, followed by a searing, burning heat. NO. NO. IT CAN’T BE. This was a nightmare. A horrible, twisted hallucination.
I stumbled back, leaning against the cold hospital wall, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a scream. My sister. My sweet, quiet sister, who had always been a little reserved, a little distant, but my family nonetheless. The sister who lived “out of state” for the past eight years, only visiting for major holidays. The sister who never talked about her life, always deflecting questions.
The sister who, just a few months ago, had confessed to me, tearfully, that she “couldn’t have children” and it was “destroying her.”
A flood of memories, tiny details I’d dismissed as nothing, now crashed down on me, forming a horrifying mosaic of deception. His ‘business trips’ often coincided with her ‘visits.’ The way he’d always been overly kind to her, a little too attentive. The way she’d sometimes glance at him, a fleeting, almost imperceptible look I’d always interpreted as familial affection.
He wasn’t just cheating on me. He wasn’t just hiding a child.
He was having a secret life with my own sister.
And they had created this beautiful, innocent child together.
My sister, who was supposedly infertile.
My partner, who said he wanted a family with me more than anything.
The world tilted. The sterile hospital walls seemed to spin. I gasped for air, but there was none. It wasn’t just betrayal. It was a complete, utter annihilation of my reality. My trust. My family. My love. EVERYTHING.
Diane Ladd signs copies of her new book “A Bad Afternoon For A Piece Of Cake” in Santa Monica, California on May 11, 2013. | Source: Getty Images
I looked back at the sleeping child, her small chest rising and falling rhythmically. My niece. My partner’s daughter. Our secret, shared nightmare. And I stood there, utterly broken, knowing that the man I loved, the sister I cherished, had built a life together behind my back. A life that just revealed itself in the most brutal, shocking way imaginable. And I was the last to know. I WAS THE LAST TO KNOW.
