Pregnancy was supposed to be the beginning of something beautiful. I pictured late-night name debates, his hand in mine at doctor visits, even midnight craving runs. But instead, I became invisible in my own marriage the moment my body began to change.

It started small—critical glances, comments about my looks. “You could at least try not to look like you gave up,” he said one night, as I sat exhausted in maternity leggings. I blamed stress. First-time father jitters, I told myself. But the distance grew fast.

By eight months, Arnie stopped pretending. He’d come home late, reeking of unfamiliar perfume, then complain about dishes, my clothes, my lack of interest in sex. When I asked where he’d been, he said, “None of your business,” and demanded dinner like I was hired help.

The next morning, he was gone. A text from his mother said he “needed space.” When he returned, Stacy was with him—young, perfect, clinging to his arm. He looked me in the eye and said, “This is my girlfriend. I want a divorce.”

I was heartbroken. But not broken.

Because while he was leaving, I was quietly building something he never saw coming.

And Stacy? She wasn’t who he thought she was.