Right before giving birth, my wife went out alone to buy baby supplies—only to catch me at the store with my mistress. One text from her, and I froze on the spot.
The Chicago sky hung low and gray, a soft drizzle misting the streets. Chloe, eight months pregnant, pulled her collar up against the damp air and drove herself to the supermarket. Mark, her husband, had said he had an urgent early-morning business call. She hadn’t questioned it, only felt the familiar sting of loneliness as she went to gather every diaper, bottle, and blanket for their baby on her own.
The store was overflowing with weekend shoppers. After slowly filling her cart, Chloe suddenly heard a voice. A voice she knew better than her own. Mark’s. She froze, peering through a gap in the crowd.
There he was—holding hands with a young woman, laughing freely. The grin on his face was one Chloe hadn’t seen in years, open and dazzling.
“What do you feel like eating? I’ll get you anything,” the woman purred.
“No, if I eat too much, I’ll gain weight.”
“I’ll still love you even if you do.”
Chloe didn’t move. She didn’t cry. She didn’t storm over. She simply stood there, watching the man she shared a life with pour tenderness into someone else’s hands while his heavily pregnant wife pushed through the aisles alone. What filled her wasn’t sorrow but something sharper, colder—an icy shock that numbed her completely.
Her fingers didn’t tremble as she took out her phone. Calmly, deliberately, she typed a message and hit send:
“I see you. Your ‘meeting’ looks lively. I’m heading home—I’m too tired for this. You… just keep enjoying yourself.”
Then she powered her phone off. She didn’t need to see what came next.
Mark was still laughing when his phone buzzed. The moment he read the text, his face drained of color. He dropped the woman’s hand, his eyes darting wildly around the crowd.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled.
Mark’s voice cracked: “Chloe… she’s here…” And then he bolted, sprinting through the store. But Chloe was already gone.
At home, she didn’t go upstairs. She went straight to the kitchen. One by one, she laid out the baby things she had bought on the table: a sky-blue onesie, soft wool socks, a pacifier, diapers, a tiny bottle. Each item glared back at her as proof of a future she had just watched shatter. She thought of the lonely nights she’d spent while he claimed to work late. The doctor’s visits she’d attended by herself. It hadn’t been paranoia—it had been her replacement.
An hour later, the door creaked open. Mark stumbled in, his face lined with panic. Seeing her sitting with her back to him, he whispered hoarsely: “Chloe… please, I’m sorry…”
“Sorry for what?” she said without turning. “For your meeting?”
“I was wrong. She doesn’t matter. I never wanted to lose you. I didn’t think you’d ever find out…”
“And if I hadn’t seen you today?” Chloe rose to face him, her eyes frighteningly calm. “How long would you have kept lying?” Her voice didn’t waver. “Don’t bother choosing. I’ve already chosen for both of us.”
She placed a folder on the table. Divorce papers.
“Sign them. I’m not asking for anything but our child. And peace.”
Mark collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He had always believed his gentle wife would cry, plead, forgive. But her gaze was unflinching—hard as steel.
“Do you still love me?” he asked desperately, his voice breaking.
Chloe’s answer was steady. “A part of me will always love the man I thought you were. But the moment I saw you with her in that supermarket… that love died.”
Those words sealed the end of their marriage.
Months later, Chloe delivered a healthy baby boy. For the first time in a long while, her smile was genuine—soft, unburdened, free. As for Mark, he sometimes showed up at her door, clutching gifts and drowning in regret. But Chloe never opened it again.
