I thought I was saving a homeless woman, but I had no idea who she really was. The moment my husband saw her sitting in our kitchen, his face turned pale. Then he whispered a word that changed everything—Mom?
I woke up with a heaviness in my chest. It wasn’t just the pregnancy making me feel this way—it was the thick, suffocating tension that never left our home. Next to me, Carter was already up, moving around the bedroom with sharp, impatient movements.
“Finally awake?”
His voice was clipped, without warmth. I pushed myself up slowly.
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Maybe if you didn’t lie around all day, you’d be tired enough to sleep.”
I swallowed hard, pressing a hand against my belly.
When I married Carter, I thought he was the perfect partner. Intelligent, charismatic, reliable. But his tone had grown colder over the years, his patience thinner.
Looking back, I realized he had always been like this. I just hadn’t seen it through the haze of love.
The moment he had everything—my house, my job position after I went on maternity leave—he let his mask slip. He had no reason to pretend anymore.
“Breakfast?” I asked.
Carter barely looked up from his phone.
“If there’s something decent to eat.”
I walked into the kitchen, moving slowly, and started frying eggs.
I had been so trusting, so foolish. At one point, I had signed all the house documents in his name, thinking it would be “easier” for him to manage finances. I had given up everything, believing that marriage meant trust.
Behind me, Carter sighed loudly.