Mom, Don't Cry! Here comes a new Daddy!

(Sabrina’s POV) It’s Tuesday, four in the afternoon. I finished the Starlight presentation early, and all I can think about is picking up Jake from Sophia’s place. I kick off my heels in the entry and pad toward the kitchen in my stockings, ready to drop the grocery bags and finally breathe. But halfway across the living room, something freezes me in place. A sound. Low. Muffled. Coming from upstairs. My heart kicks against my ribs, hard and insistent. For one wild second, I think maybe someone's broken in. That cold dread I felt in the office parking lot is back, sharp and icy. I should run back out and lock the door before calling the police, but then I hear it again. A woman's laugh. Low. Breathy. Intimate. My stomach twists. A sickening, familiar feeling crawls up my spine. The grocery bags slip from my fingers and hit the hardwood floor with a dull, wet thud. Apples roll across the living room. The carton of milk splits open, spreading white across the dark wood like spilled paint. I don't stop to clean it up. I can't. My legs are moving, carrying me toward the stairs, toward that sound, even though every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to turn around, to leave, to pretend I never heard anything. But I've been pretending for over a month now, haven't I? The sudden coldness. The distance. The way he turns away from me in bed. The phone calls he takes in another room, always whispering "Just business." All the obvious changes in my husband in the last few days—all the things I chose to turn a blind eye to, hoping I was just being paranoid. But Dustin is supposed to be hundreds of miles away. On a "business trip" with Jessica, our new manager. The one who insisted he had to go with her. And yet… The master bedroom door is cracked open. I stop for a second, steadying myself against the wall, gathering the strength, the courage to look. Because once I do, once I see whatever is happening behind that door, there's no going back. No more pretending. No more believing that everything will be okay if I just work harder, if I just love him more, if I just try to be enough. My hand is a trembling wreck as I push the door open. The sight is a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. Through the gap, I see him. Dustin. My husband. The father of my child. The man who promised to love me in sickness and in health, for better or worse, till death do us part. His shirt is on the floor—the blue one I ironed for him Sunday night while he was putting Jake to bed. Jessica, our boss, the woman who returned from New York a month ago with her designer suits and her cold smiles, has her fingers tangled in his hair… On our bed. Our bed. And they're kissing. No, not just kissing. They’re devouring each other like two starving beasts… "God, I've missed this," Jessica moans, running her manicured nails down Dustin's bare chest. "I know," Dustin murmurs, pressing his face into her neck. His voice is thick with something I haven't heard in years. Want. Need. The kind of raw emotion I used to long for, used to think was reserved for me. "I'm sorry. I should have never—" “What the hell is this?” The words rip out of me before I can stop them, raw and jagged and nothing like my voice. They spring apart. Dustin’s face drains of color, cycling through shock, panic, and then—and this is what cuts deepest—resignation. Like he's been expecting this, and is almost relieved to be caught. "Sabrina—" His voice cracks on my name. "In our bed?" The words come out strangled, my throat closing around them. "In our bed, Dustin?" Jessica doesn't look surprised. She doesn't have the decency to even look ashamed. If anything, she looks pleased, like she’s won a game I didn’t know we were playing. "Sabrina." Dustin scrambles off the bed, pulling on his shirt. I hate that my eyes follow the familiar movements, that even now some stupid part of me is cataloging the intimacy of knowing exactly how he buttons it—bottom to top, always. “We need to talk." "You think?" I hear myself laugh, the sound raw, broken. Tears threaten to spill, but I push them back. I will not give them the satisfaction. "You're screwing our boss in our bed. You have another thing coming if you think a little talk can wash this away.” "Don't be crude." Jessica slides off the mattress with the grace of someone who's done this before, smoothing down her skirt like we've just finished a business meeting instead of destroying my life. “This is hard enough without your theatrics.” "My theatrics?" I whisper, my whole body vibrating with something that feels like rage and grief and disbelief all tangled together. "I just walked in on my husband cheating on me, and you think I'm being dramatic?" "You're not walking in on anything." Jessica's voice is still steady, still professional, like she's explaining a project deadline. She buttons her blouse with precise, unhurried movements, and I notice her hands aren't shaking at all. "You're walking in on the truth. Something you should have known long ago." "What the hell are you talking about?" “Oh, please.” Jessica laughs, a harsh, brittle sound that seems to peel back the varnish of seven years. Her perfectly shaped brows arch. "Stop playing stupid, Sabrina. It doesn't suit you.” She moves, and I step back instinctively, my spine hitting the doorframe. There's something sharp beneath her composed exterior now that glints like a knife. “You had to know. Deep down, you had to know you were never the one he loved." I can't breathe. The room is too small, too hot. "Dustin and I were together for years before I left for New York." She says it simply, matter-of-factly, like she's stating the weather. "We were in love. We had plans. A future. But I got an opportunity I couldn't pass up. Did you really think you could keep him forever? You were nothing more than a substitute for me. And now that I’m back, you’re nothing more than the other woman in our relationship.” No. No, this can't be true. But even as I say it, I'm remembering things. The way Dustin was when we first met—sad, withdrawn, like he was nursing a broken heart. The way he never wanted to talk about his past relationships. The way he proposed after only six months, like he was trying to prove something to himself. Or to someone else. Jessica's voice is soft now, almost kind, and that feigned kindness is a knife twisting in my chest. "When I left, Dustin was devastated. He tried to move on, but couldn’t. Then he met you." She pauses, her eyes sweeping over me in a way that makes me feel small. Insignificant. "You were sweet. Available. And he was hurting, so he let himself believe he could love you." "Dustin." I turn to my husband, desperate for him to tell her she's wrong, to tell her she's crazy, to tell her anything other than what I already know in my bones is true. "Tell me she's lying." But he won't meet my eyes. He’s staring at the floor, at his bare feet on the carpet we picked out together three years ago after Jake spilled an entire bottle of grape juice. We'd laughed about it then, made a day of shopping for a replacement, stopped for ice cream on the way home. I thought we were happy. I thought we were building a life. But in truth, I’ve been living a lie all this time. "Dustin." My voice is a plea. "Please, tell me this isn't true." "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out like this. But Jessica and I..." He runs a hand through his hair, hair that's still messed up from her fingers running through it. My stomach churns. "We were together for a long time before she left. She was—she's always been the one I loved, Sabrina. I thought I could move on. I tried. But when she came back last month, I realized I couldn't." The world stops. Everything—the sound of traffic outside, the hum of the air conditioning, my own heartbeat—fades into a distant hum. The pieces fall into place with sickening clarity. Jessica didn't just get hired as Creative Director. She came back. For him. "Seven years of marriage. A child together... and I was only a rebound?" "It wasn't like that." But his voice wavers, and we both know he's lying. "I did love you. Once. I cared about you. But I never forgot her. And now that she's back…” He finally looks up, and there's something in his eyes that makes me want to scream. It's not guilt. It's not shame. It's relief. “I can't keep lying to myself. I can't keep pretending I'm happy when I'm not. I want a divorce, Sabrina. And I want custody of Jake."