I found the sonogram in his glove compartment while searching for a parking receipt. It was dated two weeks after our wedding. The name on the corner was Isobel Radcliffe—his high school sweetheart.
He never cheated. He just forgot to tell me he’d gotten her pregnant.
Suddenly, every late night at the office made sense. Every hushed phone call. The way his mother, Celia, would look at me—a pitying glance I’d mistaken for warmth. She’d always preferred Isobel. Now she had a grandchild on the way from the woman she’d always wanted as a daughter-in-law.
My husband, Eamon, swore it was a mistake, a complication he was handling. But his idea of handling was paying the medical bills. Attending the appointments. His family’s world began to shrink to include only Isobel and the baby. I became the outsider in my own marriage. The unreasonable one for asking him to choose. The obstacle to his family’s perfect picture.
The final straw wasn’t a grand argument. It was him missing our anniversary dinner because Isobel had a scare. He said I’d understand if I truly loved him. And I realized I did. I loved myself enough not to disappear anymore.
When does holding on become letting go? And can a love survive when it’s built on a foundation of secrets?
There is no cheating in this book.
