I remember the exact weight of those grocery bags, digging into my palms, cold and unforgiving. Seven months pregnant, every step felt like an act of defiance against gravity. It was late, past midnight, the kind of hour when the world feels like it’s forgotten you. My streetlights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows that mirrored the chaos in my mind.
He was “working late,” again. Always “working late.” The texts grew shorter, the calls nonexistent. I’d stopped asking. Stopped hoping. It was easier to pretend I was just… doing this on my own. Easier to be alone than to feel alone beside someone.
I rounded the corner to my building, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My back ached. My feet throbbed. I clutched the last two plastic bags, one holding milk and eggs, the other, a small, sad container of ice cream – my only indulgence. Just a few more steps. That’s all. Just a few more.
Bad Bunny attends the 68th Annual Grammy Awards at Crypto.com Arena on February 1, 2026
And then, it happened. My foot caught on a crack in the pavement. A clumsy stumble. Time slowed down. The bags swung wildly, then burst. Milk carton exploded on impact. Eggs cracked, their yellow yolks bleeding into the damp concrete. The ice cream tub rolled away, a pathetic, mocking cylinder of disappointment.
I didn’t just drop the groceries. I fell. Not fully, but enough to send a sharp, terrifying jolt through my belly. My hands flew to protect my unborn child, my scream catching in my throat. I landed hard on my knees, the pain a fiery rush, quickly overshadowed by the searing shame.
Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and immediate. Not for the ruined groceries, not for my scraped knees, but for the utter, profound loneliness of it all. I sat there, amidst the spilled milk and broken eggs, my body heavy, my spirit shattered. I was pregnant, alone with groceries, and I was utterly, irrevocably broken. This is my life now, I thought, the thought a bitter taste in my mouth. Picking up broken pieces, alone.
A shadow fell over me.
Cher presents the award for Record of the Year during the 68th Annual Grammy Awards at Crypto.com Arena on February 1, 2026
I flinched, not even having heard anyone approach. A woman. She bent down, her face obscured by the dim light, but her voice was soft, concerned. “Are you alright? Oh my god, you fell. Are you hurt?”
She knelt beside me without a moment’s hesitation, her hands already moving. She began to gather the unbroken items, her movements gentle, efficient. “Don’t try to get up. Just breathe. Is the baby okay?” Her eyes, kind and deep, met mine. And then I noticed it.
She was pregnant too. Not as far along as me, maybe five or six months, but unmistakably showing. A small, round bump under her coat. My breath hitched. Another woman, just like me, carrying a life.
“I… I think so,” I managed, my voice a whisper. “Just… clumsy.”
Cher presents the award for Record of the Year during the 68th Annual Grammy Awards at Crypto.com Arena on February 1, 2026
She helped me slowly, carefully, to my feet. Her arm was surprisingly strong, supportive. “It happens. Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll help you with it.” She insisted, picking up the scattered items. Our hands brushed as she handed me a few cans.
“You really shouldn’t be carrying so much,” she said, her brow furrowed with concern. “Do you have… someone who usually helps?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. Someone who helps. I forced a smile. “He’s… working late. Always working late.” My voice cracked on the last word, betraying the practiced nonchalance.
She paused, her gaze lingering on my face, then drifting down to my prominent belly. A strange, fleeting expression crossed her features. A flicker of something I couldn’t quite place – recognition? Sympathy? Pity?
“Working late, huh?” she murmured, more to herself than to me. She had picked up the abandoned tub of ice cream, thankfully still sealed. She handed it to me. “Here. Your prize for surviving the week.”
Cher presents the award for Record of the Year during the 68th Annual Grammy Awards at Crypto.com Arena on February 1, 2026
I managed a weak laugh. “Thank you. Really, you didn’t have to.”
“Of course I did,” she said, a sad smile touching her lips. “No one should have to do this alone. Especially not when you’re… expecting.” She emphasized the word, her eyes holding mine, a silent understanding passing between us.
Then, she looked past me, towards my building’s entrance, and then back at me. A deep sigh escaped her. “Funny,” she began, her voice a little lower now, almost hesitant. “You look so familiar. And your building… I know this area well. My husband, he works nearby. He’s always ‘working late’ too.”
My blood ran cold. Husband. The word echoed in the sudden silence between us. Working late. The same tired excuse. The same empty feeling.
“My partner…” I started, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. “He’s in marketing.” Why did I say that? Why was I giving her details?
Bad Bunny reacts to winning Album of the Year for “DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS” during the 68th Annual Grammy Awards at Crypto.com Arena on February 1, 2026
Her head tilted slightly. “Really? What a coincidence. Mine too. He travels a lot for work. Says he’s ‘opening new markets’ in different cities. But lately… he’s been around here more often than not.” Her voice was quiet, almost a confession in itself. “He’s been… absent. Distant. I thought it was just the stress of the new baby.” She gestured subtly to her own belly. “But seeing you… like this…”
A wave of dread washed over me. No. It couldn’t be. This was a coincidence. Just a tired, pregnant woman making an innocent observation. Don’t be crazy. This is a random stranger.
But then, she took another step closer, her voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper. Her eyes, which had been so kind, now held a new, dawning horror. “What’s his name?” she asked, the words barely breathed.
My throat was dry. My heart hammered against my ribs. It was as if she already knew. It was as if she saw something in my face, a reflection of her own unspoken fears.
I told her. His name. The name I had whispered in love, in frustration, in endless, lonely nights.
Bad Bunny reacts to winning Album of the Year for “DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS” during the 68th Annual Grammy Awards at Crypto.com Arena on February 1, 2026
Her eyes widened. Her face went utterly, chillingly blank. She didn’t need to confirm it. I saw it in her eyes. I felt it in the sudden, electric tension that zinged between us, two strangers linked by an invisible, horrifying thread.
“No,” she whispered, a guttural sound of disbelief. “No, that’s… that’s impossible. That’s my husband.”
The world spun. The flickering streetlight became a blinding flash. The damp concrete, the spilled milk, the broken eggs – all of it dissolved into a sickening blur. It wasn’t just “working late.” It wasn’t just “absent.”
IT WAS BETRAYAL. A DOUBLE LIFE.
Bad Bunny reacts to winning Album of the Year for “DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS” during the 68th Annual Grammy Awards at Crypto.com Arena on February 1, 2026
Two pregnant women. Two lives shattered on a cold, indifferent street. We stood there, under the weak glow of the streetlamp, two broken reflections of a lie. The babies within us, two innocent lives, unknowingly bound by the cruel deception of one man.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach, just as mine went to mine. Our eyes locked, no longer kind, no longer sympathetic. But something else. A shared, agonizing comprehension. We weren’t alone in the struggle. We were alone, together, in the ruins of our lives.
The ice cream tub, still clutched in my hand, suddenly felt impossibly heavy. It was no longer a prize. It was a symbol. A bitter, cold truth.
And in that moment, picking up those scattered groceries on that lonely street, everything truly changed. Everything.
