I was trembling with joy when I saw the two pink lines. After years of trying, I was finally pregnant. I called Matthew first, but he didn’t answer. So I dialed his mother, Diana, hoping to share the news. Her response shattered me: “You’re already the third one. Did Matthew not tell you?” I froze. Third what? Third wife? Third pregnancy? She laughed, then hung up. My joy turned to dread. I sat on the bathroom floor, clutching the test, wondering what secrets my husband had buried—and why his own mother thought I was just another name on a list.
When Matthew came home, I confronted him. He brushed it off, blaming Diana’s cruelty. “She’s always stirring trouble,” he said. But his grip on my hand tightened, and his eyes flickered with something I couldn’t name. At brunch, Diana struck again, mocking my pregnancy and saying Matthew was “used to disappointment.” He said nothing. That silence hurt more than her words. I wasn’t just someone he was “with”—I was his wife. But the deeper I looked, the more I found: receipts from toy stores in unfamiliar towns, a photo of Matthew with a child I’d never met, and a hospital invoice with another woman’s name.
I dug deeper and found a birth certificate: Matthew had a son named Jacob with a woman named Sarah. I called her. She confirmed everything—Matthew had abandoned her and their child, pushed away by Diana’s manipulation. “We’re ghosts in his life,” she said. Then came another file: a miscarriage record for a woman named Anna, dated during our marriage. He’d been with her while I thought he was at a conference. My stomach twisted. I wasn’t the first. I wasn’t even the second. I was just the latest chapter in a book filled with betrayal.
I laid everything out on the kitchen table—birth certificates, photos, medical records. When Matthew walked in, his face drained. “Is it true?” I asked. He tried to deflect, then admitted it. “You blow everything out of proportion,” he snapped. “Grow up, Violet. You’re about to become a mother.” That was the final crack. I saw him clearly—not as the man I loved, but as someone who wore lies like a second skin. I pressed my hand to my stomach, knowing I had to protect my child from the legacy of deceit he’d built.
The next day, Diana arrived, smug and satisfied. “Did you really think you were special?” she said. “Matthew has always needed more than one woman.” I slid my wedding ring off and placed it on the table. “I may not be the first,” I said, “but I’m the last who’ll ever put up with either of you.” I walked out, one hand over my belly, the other holding the truth. I wasn’t going to let my child grow up in a house built on secrets. I chose freedom—for me, for my baby, and for every woman Matthew had tried to erase.
I wasn’t the first. I wasn’t the second. But I was the one who ended it. For Sarah, for Anna, and for myself. I left behind the lies, the manipulation, and the man who thought love was disposable. My child will grow up knowing truth, strength, and dignity. And if Diana ever dares to call again, she’ll hear silence. Because I’m done being a chapter in someone else’s story. I’m writing my own now—and it begins with walking away.
