The ache had been a constant companion for months, a dull, throbbing weight behind my ribs. The knowledge, a sliver of ice in my heart, of his betrayal. He thought I didn’t know, but the late nights, the hushed phone calls, the scent of a different perfume lingering on his shirts – they were screaming at me. I just couldn’t bring myself to confront him. Not yet. The truth was too heavy, too real.
I’d come to the community pool, hoping the bright sun and the sound of distant laughter would drown out the noise in my head, if only for an hour. I wanted to feel something other than this hollow despair. I found a lounge chair, shielded by a large umbrella, and closed my eyes, trying to conjure a time when my world wasn’t crumbling.
Then, I heard it. His laugh. The deep, rumbling sound I once adored, now a knife to my gut. My eyes snapped open. And there they were.
He was standing at the edge of the shallow end, smiling that easy, charming smile I’d fallen in love with. And next to him, her. She was laughing too, a bright, melodic sound that grated on my nerves. She wore a vibrant blue swimsuit, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, looking exactly like the kind of woman who belonged in his arms. My stomach turned. I felt a cold wave of nausea, followed by a searing, white-hot rage.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Between them, splashing happily, was a little boy. He couldn’t have been more than three, with a head of sandy blonde hair and eyes that crinkled with joy when he laughed. He had his father’s eyes. My husband’s eyes. My breath hitched. No. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t just an affair; this was a whole other life. A family. The family we were supposed to build. The children I’d yearned for, the ones we’d tried for, prayed for, mourned for when our efforts failed. He’d just… made them with someone else.
My vision blurred, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. They looked so perfect, so complete. My husband tossed the boy a colorful beach ball, and the child squealed with delight. She wrapped an arm around my husband’s waist, leaning her head on his shoulder, utterly unashamed, utterly at peace. And I, the invisible woman, the forgotten wife, watched my entire future play out before me, stolen, reimagined, perfected without me.
A dark, venomous thought slithered into my mind. Let something happen. Let karma finally catch up. Let this perfect little scene shatter. Just a little. Just enough to wipe that smug smile off their faces. I hated myself for thinking it, but the pain was too much.
The little boy, chasing his ball, ventured a little too far. He reached for it, losing his footing on the slippery tile. He stumbled, arms flailing, and plunged headfirst into the deep end of the pool.
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. A piercing scream. It was her. She sounded genuinely terrified. My husband, usually so composed, so unruffled, suddenly looked like a wild man. His face went chalk-white. He didn’t hesitate. He dove in, fully clothed, a frantic splash, pulling the tiny, sputtering body from the water in seconds.
He held the boy close, rocking him, whispering frantic reassurances. The little boy coughed, sputtering water, and then started to cry, a heart-wrenching sound. She was beside them instantly, her face streaked with tears, trying to comfort them both. My initial dark satisfaction vanished, replaced by a strange, unsettling feeling. It wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want the child to suffer.
My husband gently pushed the boy’s wet hair back from his forehead, checking for any injury. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s temple. And in that moment, as the blonde hair was slicked away from his brow, I saw it.
A small, thin scar, barely visible, just above his left eyebrow.
My breath caught in my throat. My mind reeled, flashing back. Years ago. A chilly autumn night. The doorbell ringing relentlessly. Opening it to find a wicker basket on our porch. Inside, a swaddled infant, no older than a few days. Blue, cold, struggling. He’d had a small scratch there, then. Exactly there.
We’d rushed him to the hospital. The doctors worked tirelessly. But they’d told us… they’d told us he didn’t make it. He was too fragile, they’d said. Too cold. We did everything we could, but he passed away quietly. We mourned that nameless baby for months, burying the hope we hadn’t even realized we’d fostered in those terrifying, brief hours. My husband had held me, had cried with me, telling me we’d done our best.
He lied.
He didn’t die. He didn’t die at all.
My husband didn’t just have an affair. He stole a life. The life we found. The life I’d grieved. He took that tiny, abandoned baby – our baby, for those few precious hours – and gave him to her. To his mistress.
The world went silent. The laughter, the splashing, the frantic cries of the child – it all faded. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. The karma wasn’t for them. The lesson was for me. A lesson in the true depths of his depravity. He hadn’t just cheated. He’d orchestrated the most agonizing, soul-crushing lie, making me believe a child had died, only to raise him with another woman.
I closed my eyes again, but this time, the darkness was absolute. And I knew, with a horrifying certainty, that my life would never be bright again.
