There’s a silence that only truly broken things know. The kind that seeps into your bones, suffocating every breath, every memory. I live in that silence now. It follows me, a phantom limb of a life I thought was mine, a future ripped away by a simple, horrifying truth.
It started with love. Deep, unwavering, soul-shattering love. I believed it with every fiber of my being. We had built a life, brick by painstaking brick, dream by whispered dream. He was my anchor, my horizon, the very air I breathed. We talked about everything. Our home, our adventures, our quiet evenings, and, most importantly, our future. Our children. We longed for them, ached for them. We had names picked out, tiny shoes saved, and a whole world ready to welcome them.
Our apartment was small but filled with our laughter, our shared history. But we envisioned something bigger, something with a nursery. A room painted soft, dreaming colors, waiting for tiny hands and feet. We’d spent countless nights poring over designs, imagining the perfect cradle. Not just any cradle, but the cradle. Something custom, unique, a piece of art that would hold our most precious miracle. A symbol of our enduring love and the family we were creating.
A grandma wearing a yellow cardigan | Source: Midjourney
That’s where it began. The “simple order” that would unravel my entire existence.
I found an artisan, a local woodworker whose pieces felt like they held stories in their grain. His workshop smelled of sawdust and dreams. I explained our vision: a handcrafted crib, solid oak, with subtle carvings of crescent moons and tiny stars – a nod to our first date, stargazing on a chilly night. He listened, sketching as I spoke, his eyes kind. This is it, I thought. This is where our future truly begins.
We talked about safety features, finishes, the exact dimensions. I felt a joy so profound it was almost dizzying. This wasn’t just furniture; it was a tangible piece of our hope. I paid the deposit, my heart soaring. He promised regular updates, and I practically skipped out of his shop, already picturing our baby nestled inside.
A week later, I received an email from the artisan. A question about a specific wood stain. I called him back, eager to discuss the details.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice cheerful. “The same stain you requested for the moon-and-stars crib. Beautiful choice. Very popular this year, actually. Your husband was quite specific about it, too.”
My heart gave a little lurch. My husband? We weren’t married yet, but we often referred to each other as such, a sweet premonition. Still, he hadn’t mentioned speaking to the artisan. Maybe he just dropped by to surprise me with an idea? I brushed it off. Just a sweet gesture.
A smiling woman standing outside | Source: Midjourney
“Yes, we both love that shade,” I replied, trying to sound natural. “He’s just as excited as I am.”
“Oh, I know he is,” the artisan chuckled. “He was in here last month, picking out the wood for his own custom order. Very excited about those little twins.”
My world tilted. The air left my lungs in a sudden, violent whoosh. My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles ached.
“I… I don’t understand,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. Twins? What twins? He never mentioned twins. We only ever talked about one baby at a time, to start. Was he planning a surprise? A HUGE surprise? A cold dread started to spread through my chest, slow and insidious.
The artisan seemed to sense my confusion, or maybe my panic, but he misunderstood its source. “Oh, I hope I haven’t spoiled a surprise! He said he wanted to tell you both together, but he was so excited, he just couldn’t help but come in and get things started.” He paused, then added, “It was a lovely idea, really. Two smaller cribs, identical but for the little personalized engravings. He said one for the boy, one for the girl.”
The phone felt like a block of ice in my hand. My mind was racing, trying to catch up with the terrifying words. Two smaller cribs? Identical? Personalised engravings? A boy and a girl?
A happy couple | Source: Pexels
“Engravings?” The word tore from my throat, raw and broken.
“Yes, the initials,” he confirmed, completely oblivious to the earthquake he was causing. “He specifically asked for ‘J.M.’ on one, and ‘E.S.’ on the other.”
J.M. and E.S.
Those weren’t our initials. Those weren’t the names we had picked out for our future children. My head began to pound. A searing pain erupted behind my eyes. No. This isn’t happening. There’s a mistake. A terrible, horrible misunderstanding.
“But… but what about our crib?” I choked out, desperately trying to cling to some shred of sanity. “The one for our baby?”
“Oh, that’s what I thought we were talking about,” he said, his voice now tinged with confusion. “The moon-and-stars crib you just ordered today. The one he said he was getting for you both. He wants to surprise you with it.”
My vision blurred. I swayed, reaching out blindly for a counter, anything to steady myself. “He ordered a separate crib,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “For two different children. With different initials.”
A couple watching TV | Source: Pexels
The artisan was silent for a long moment. Then, his voice dropped, losing all its previous cheer. “Ma’am… I think there’s been a profound misunderstanding. Your partner, he commissioned two cribs a month ago. For his twins. He showed me ultrasound photos. He explicitly stated they were for his children. And when you came in today, you ordered one crib for your baby. He told me he was going to surprise you with it. He paid for that one in cash, saying it was a gift to you.”
The truth, stark and brutal, hit me like a physical blow. He hadn’t been in the workshop discussing our crib. He had been there discussing his other children’s cribs. The moon-and-stars crib I had just ordered, full of hopeful dreams, wasn’t a symbol of our shared future. It was a cover. A gift to keep me placated, to keep me dreaming while he built an entirely different life with an entirely different family.
The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. The world spun. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating. My love, my anchor, my future… all of it, a meticulously crafted lie.
I crumbled to the floor, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The pain was absolute, physical. It was the sound of a thousand dreams shattering, the light of a thousand stars going out. He had a family. A hidden life. Two babies. J.M. and E.S. And he was still here, with me, planning a future that was already a cruel, twisted joke.
A couple sitting and talking on a bed | Source: Pexels
I finally managed to push myself up, my legs trembling. My hand instinctively went to my stomach, a protective gesture I’d unconsciously adopted over the last few weeks. The nausea that had plagued me, the fatigue, the missed cycle… I hadn’t wanted to hope, to jinx it. But now, in the face of such profound betrayal, a new, terrifying reality crashed over me.
I was pregnant.
I was pregnant with his child. And he already had twins on the way, with someone else.
