"Emmie, I'm pregnant with your husband's baby."
My hand went still over the coffee cup. The message sat on the screen like a splinter.
"Who is this?" I typed, voice steady even though my fingers trembled.
There was no name. Just that sentence and a number I didn't recognize.
"Listen. He's mine," the reply said three seconds later.
I set the mug down. I looked at the living room. Forrest's tie hung over the back of a chair. A suit jacket draped the sofa. Our wedding photo was on the shelf, smiling at me like it had a secret it refused to share.
"Is this a joke?" I asked the phone. I kept my voice calm because nerves make people say things they regret.
"Not a joke. He promised to leave you." Then: "If you want peace, keep quiet."
I typed, "Who are you, exactly?" and put the phone face down. I walked into the kitchen like I was looking for something—salt, a dish, anything. I moved slow. I needed time to decide whether to explode or move.
The door clicked. Footsteps in the hallway. Jana's laugh—bright, careless—bubbled through the entryway.
"Emmie!" Jana sang. "You home? I brought those files Forrest wanted."
Forrest's voice followed, clipped and thin. "Jana, don't—"
I turned. They looked too casual. Jana in a blouse that read like someone trying hard. Forrest with his hands in his pockets, eyes sliding away from me.
"Hey
