She buried her child.
And not long after, she realized she had buried the truth too.

Late nights became common. Phone calls taken in the other room. The smell of unfamiliar perfume clinging to his clothes. When she asked, he said she was imagining things—that grief was making her suspicious, unstable.

She apologized for asking.

Then one evening, she found the messages by accident. No drama. No confrontation at first. Just words glowing quietly on a screen, confessing what he never had the courage to say out loud.

He had been unfaithful.
While she was pregnant.
While she was carrying life.
While she was praying for her baby to arrive safely.

The betrayal hit differently than the loss. Sharper. Colder. Loss had left her empty. Betrayal made her feel erased.

That night, she locked herself in the bathroom and slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold floor. She pressed her hands to her stomach, which was still swollen, still healing, still aching for a child who would never come home.

She didn’t scream.
She didn’t curse.

She whispered, barely audible:

“God… I don’t understand.”