The morning began like any other. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the pregnancy test trembling in my hands—two pink lines. Pregnant. Again.
For a brief moment, I felt joy. A baby is a blessing, right? But that feeling quickly gave way to panic. How were we supposed to manage this?
Mark was already worn thin working as a janitor, and my nanny salary barely kept us afloat. Our son, Leo, had just turned seven and needed new shoes. The car was making those familiar, worrisome noises again—repairs we couldn’t afford.Comfortable shoes for kids
Mark sat in the living room, tying the laces on his worn-out boots, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of another long day.
“You’re up early,” he said, eyes still on the floor.
“Busy day,” I replied with a forced smile. “Gotta drop Leo off at Mom’s and head over to the Carters’. The twins are teething.”
He gave a faint nod. “Still better than cleaning bathrooms,” he said with a weak smile. But his eyes—his eyes were tired. Detached.
I wanted to tell him. About the baby. But not now. Not when he already looked like the world was sitting on his back.
After dropping Leo off, I went to my appointment. The clinic was quiet, filled with the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional footsteps down the hall. As I waited for the doctor, I glanced out the window—and froze.
Was that… Mark?
I blinked in disbelief. He was walking toward the maternity ward, but this version of him looked nothing like the man I’d said goodbye to that morning. He wore a tailored black suit. His hair was neatly styled. A luxury watch glinted on his wrist. And in his arms—two newborns wrapped in pastel blankets.
“Mark?” I whispered, stunned.
He didn’t look.
“Mark!” I called louder, my voice rising.
He didn’t turn. Just kept walking until he stepped into a sleek black car waiting outside.
Heart pounding, I left the clinic room and rushed into the maternity wing. Sunlight poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, brightening the elegant décor. In the corner, a woman was neatly packing tiny baby clothes into a designer diaper bag.
She looked up as I entered.
Tall. Stunning. With soft auburn curls and a silk robe that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
“Can I help you?” she asked, politely but coolly.
My fists clenched. “I’m Nora. I’m looking for my husband. Mark.”
Her eyes widened. “Your… husband?”
“Yes,” I said, stepping closer. “I just saw him leave. With two babies. Yours, I assume?”
She slowly sat down, visibly shaken. “You’re saying Mark is married?”
I nodded. “Nine years. We have a seven-year-old son. And I’m eight weeks pregnant with our second.”
She inhaled sharply. “He told me he was divorced.”
I laughed bitterly. “Of course he did. But maybe you can explain something to me—how is my janitor husband living a double life like some millionaire?”
She blinked. “Wait—janitor? Mark told me he inherited a fortune. That he was an investor.”
“What?” I gasped. “No. His dad died broke. We’ve been living paycheck to paycheck.”