When I told him I was pregnant, he cried. Real tears. He hugged me like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment and said, “We did it, Row. We’re going to be parents.”
I believed him.
We planned a big gender reveal because our families turn everything into an event. Backyard party. Friends. Food. Decorations. The whole performance.
And a giant white reveal box in the middle of the yard.
Harper insisted on handling “the gender part” because she was the only one who knew the result.
“I want to be involved,” she said. “I’m the aunt.”
I laughed. “Fine. Just don’t mess it up.”
She smiled like butter wouldn’t melt. “I would never.”
Two days before the party, I was on the couch, exhausted in that early-pregnancy way where you can fall asleep mid-thought. Blake was in the shower, humming like he didn’t have a conscience.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I grabbed it without thinking. Same phone model as mine. Same kind of case.
It wasn’t mine.
A message popped up from a contact saved as “❤️.”
I can’t wait to see you again. Same time tomorrow, darling 😘.
My body went cold. Instant ice.
I stared at the screen, forcing my brain to invent a harmless explanation.
Wrong number. Spam. A prank.
But my hands opened the chat anyway.
And the world I’d been living in split down the middle.
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