I had a 102°F fever, chills racking my body so violently the bed shook. My head throbbed, every cough an explosion in my chest. And in my arms, my beautiful, tiny 6-month-old, wide awake and inconsolable, crying for comfort I barely had the strength to give. Just a little help, I thought, my voice raspy. I turned to him, pleading. His eyes, already narrowed with annoyance, hardened. “Your cough is keeping me up. NEED SLEEP.” He didn’t even look at our baby. He just stared at the ceiling, as if my very existence was an inconvenience. “I’m going to stay at my mom’s for a few nights. Your cough is UNBEARABLE anyway.”
The words hit me harder than the fever. UNBEARABLE. Was I unbearable? Was our baby unbearable? He packed a small bag, kissed my forehead with a quick, dry peck, and left. The door clicked shut, sealing in the silence that wasn’t silent at all – it was filled with the rhythmic cries of our infant and the ragged sound of my own struggling breath.
The next few days were a blur of pain, exhaustion, and the kind of loneliness that hollows you out. I changed diapers, warmed bottles, and sang lullabies through a burning throat, often collapsing onto the rug, baby still clutched close, just to rest for a minute. He didn’t call. Not once to check on me, or his child. My friends brought food, my own mother called constantly, worried sick. But not him.
He returned five days later, acting like he’d just popped out for groceries. He tried to kiss me, but I flinched. The chasm between us was now a canyon, and I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. He made a half-hearted attempt to connect with the baby, then retreated to his phone, complaining about work.
The resentment simmered, a quiet, dangerous fire beneath my skin. What kind of man does that? I spent weeks trying to understand, searching for an explanation, any explanation, that didn’t paint him as a monster. He was just tired, stressed, not used to being a dad. My mind manufactured excuses, because the alternative was too terrifying.
Then, one evening, I was cleaning out an old duffel bag of his, full of forgotten gym clothes, planning to donate them. Deep in a side pocket, tucked beneath a crumpled protein bar wrapper, I found it. A second phone. Not his work phone, not his old phone. A sleek, brand new one. Fully charged.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew, instantly, this wasn’t innocent. With shaking fingers, I pressed the power button. No password. It opened right up. My breath caught. The lock screen was a photo. A child. A toddler, maybe a year old, laughing, sitting on… HIS LAP.
Then I saw the text message notification at the top of the screen, just beneath the photo. It was from a number I didn’t recognize, but the name saved in the contact was simply, “Baby Mama.” The message read: “He’s been asking for you all day. Says ‘daddy’ a lot now. Happy 1st Birthday, Daddy. We miss you.”
A first birthday. A whole other life. NOT JUST CHEATING. AN ENTIRE OTHER CHILD, AN ENTIRE OTHER FAMILY, HE WAS ACTIVELY RAISING WHILE HE ABANDONED ME AND OUR 6-MONTH-OLD, SICK AND SUFFERING. I dropped the phone. The clatter echoed in the silent room. IT WASN’T MY COUGH THAT WAS UNBEARABLE. IT WAS ME.
