a small, pastel-colored house with a white picket fence and toys scattered across the front yard.
I stayed far enough back so he wouldn’t notice me, but close enough to see a young woman — mid-20s, holding a baby — open the door.
And then my worst fear came true.
My husband reached out, kissed the woman on the cheek, and gently took the baby from her arms. The way he looked at that child… it was the same way he used to look at Laura when she was a newborn.
I felt my knees go weak. I couldn’t breathe.
I stayed there, watching him walk inside like he belonged, while my mind spun in a million directions — betrayal, disbelief, rage.
After what felt like an eternity, I drove home in a daze. That night, I didn’t say a word. I just lay in bed next to him, staring at the ceiling, while the image of him holding that baby burned into my mind.
The next morning, I made a decision: I wasn’t going to confront him until I had proof — not just of the baby, but of who that woman was.
What I found out when I did my digging… made my blood run cold.
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