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The first time I told my husband I wanted a divorce was because he took a call from his first love at our baby shower. He didn’t come home until late that night, his tie askew, exhaustion etched onto his face. He pushed open the bedroom door, saw I was still awake, and sighed before he even said a word. “She was having a breakdown.” “I couldn’t just leave her alone.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as if I were the unreasonable one for waiting up. I didn’t ask where he’d gone. I didn’t ask what had happened to her, either. What had happened a few hours earlier was all the answer I needed. It was the baby shower I’d thrown for our unborn child, hosted at my husband’s family estate. Friends and family from both sides had come. Gifts were piled high across the long table. Every person who saw me touched my pregnant belly before offering their congratulations. I had believed that, for one day at least, my husband would put me and our child first. He stood in the center of the grand hall giving a speech, one arm wrapped around me, an impeccable smile on his face. “Thank you all for coming to welcome our baby.” “I can’t wait to be a father.” Before he could finish, his phone rang. He glanced down at the screen, and the arm around my waist fell away. I was standing right next to him. I saw exactly who was calling. His first love. He didn’t decline the call. He didn’t even wait for the speech to end. He simply told the guests he had an urgent work matter, grabbed his car keys, and walked out. I was still standing there. He didn’t even offer an apology. The room went quiet. I could see the pity in their eyes, and I could guess what they were all thinking. My husband had just abandoned our baby shower for another woman. And I, his wife, was left to hold it all together. Bracing a hand against my stomach, I picked up the wineglass he’d set down. “He had an emergency. Let’s continue.” The music swelled again, and the guests resumed their polite chatt
