Olivia thought a pottery class was a harmless way to pass the time while waiting for baby number two. What started as a lighthearted pottery session with her friend, Ava, turned into a spiral of shocking revelations—one that linked her husband to a secret she never saw coming.

I’m currently expecting my second child, and I’ve heard the saying that the second pregnancy tends to be more emotional. I chalked this up to another old wives’ tale until my own situation started proving it true. But the emotions I’m feeling have less to do with the baby and more with my husband.

For most of this pregnancy, all I desired was to stay wrapped in a cozy blanket, binge-watching TV, and eating all sorts of snacks. Growing a child is truly exhausting, and I intended to spend the coming months in full-on relaxation mode. Yet my best friend, Ava, had other plans for me.

“You need to get out of the house,” she insisted one day while bustling around my kitchen, preparing a strawberry milkshake. Meanwhile, I made myself comfortable on the couch, hoping she’d just let me be.

“Why would I need to?” was my weak attempt at protest, knowing full well she needed no further reasons.

Smirking, she said, “Because you’re turning into a hermit, Liv. Remember when we used to go out and have fun?” Her smile was as sweet as the roar of the blender was loud.

“Fun? I think you mean exhaustion,” I retorted under my breath.

Pretending she didn’t hear, Ava went on, “There’s this amazing pottery place. They hold these pottery parties where you can create or paint something special.”

“And we’re doing this because…who?” I inquired, my eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“For fun, of course! We could make something lovely for the nursery. It’ll do you good to just clear your mind a little,” she countered, serving the milkshake with an air of determination.

Though picturing the discomfort my swollen ankles would endure, I relented. “Fine. But if the baby demands any midnight snacks, you’re picking them up,” I agreed grudgingly.

Her victory was sealed with a gleeful grin. “Deal! I’ve already arranged for Malcolm to watch Tess.”

That stopped me right there — Ava typically tolerated Malcolm for my sake, but hearing she had prepped him ahead was odd. Yet the thought slipped, leaving behind a simple, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Arriving at the pottery studio, we were met with a lively buzz as chatty groups occupied tables, surrounded by clay and colorful paintbrushes. The atmosphere was more lively than serene—just what Ava anticipated.

“Told ya it’d be fun,” she beamed, nudging me forward.

Feigning exasperation, I replied, “If you consider a full-blown party a crafting session, sure.”

We settled at a quieter corner, brushes ready and ceramic pieces awaiting our imagination. The surroundings emitted a charm: friendly chatter embroidered with laughter, as if the room itself had wrapped us in warmth.

Besides our playful banter, the conversation naturally strayed to pregnancy and childbirth—a world I was deeply familiar with. Women exchanged anecdotes, familial or personal, some whimsical, others haunting.

A voice cut through the cheerful noise from across the room, delivering a tale that cloaked the air with an uncanny vibe. While painting her mug, a woman recounted a moment from the previous summer when she had been almost caught up in similar webs as mine.

“Last Fourth of July,” she narrated, “I was with my boyfriend when he got a call because his sister-in-law went into labor. Said it was a ‘family affair’ he couldn’t miss.” Her nonchalance contrasted with my swift-stirred memory.

Sitting next to her, Ava stiffened noticeably, her silent curiosity lunging toward me. The pieces began to snap into place precisely as the woman told us of the event hailing a niece named Tess, born that fateful night.

The name, as familiar as my own skin, became an unexpected trigger. The object slipped from my grip, the gravity of the revelation sinking faster than my spinning thoughts.

As if a whisper, Ava barely managed to utter, “Liv, this isn’t real?” But every ounce within contradicted her hope. Reality sunk sharper than any jest ever could.

The woman shifted topics, unknowing she had shattered my life with simplicity of tales well-measured. Her laughter spoke of their child and how Malcolm was occupied babysitting his ‘niece’ Tess—and that was why he missed their own son’s birth.

Replaying details, I couldn’t afford to dismiss, I dared to ask the essential question. “That’s an interesting name for your boyfriend—is he Malcolm?”

She nodded, recounting her version of him as if mine belonged to mere fiction. Unable to sweep the weight under the rug any longer, I fished for my phone. The familiar family photo—a testament to what should be—came across not as comfort but damning evidence.

“My husband,” I introduced hollowly, the artificial mantel shattering beneath her dawning recognition.

Her stare mirrored my own horror. “You mean husband? But…he’s also my child’s father.”

What once seemed idyllic crumbled within moments, a portrait of betrayal painted by someone else’s hand. Drowning in whispers, I stood away from it all, a suffocating space beyond repair.

“Ava,” breathless, “water, please.”

She obliged without hesitation, amid the spectators who wore empathy uncomfortably. Unable to watch as their sympathy turned suffocating, I fled to solitude, grasping desperately for clarity that a public bathroom wouldn’t grant.

The too-stark reality pressed in like relentless waves, and I knew the confrontation couldn’t wait. Our family couldn’t walk into chaos when unity was barely held by fragile threads.

“I need to confront him,” I resolved before Ava could argue. “Before our baby’s here, we must find a way forward or march away from what’s been broken.”

He ultimately confessed—affair, child, all of it—a constellation of distrust scattering hope apart.

Amid unyielding truths, I’m sinking chocolates and surfing through divorce consultations.

The new life envisioned wouldn’t include deceit but a time for healing. My children belong to an honest inn, not one marred by mistrusts akin to poison.

No mends for shattered history, but forth lies potential, undisturbed stability attainable not through fear but love anew.

As Ava led to our escape, I murmured, “It’s over, Ava. I’m finished with living in his lies.”

My next chapter starts with reclaiming virtues unknown, the pathway born of unshakable resolve.