I’m 25 weeks pregnant. Our first baby. My belly is a round, beautiful reminder of everything we’ve built, everything we’re looking forward to. This year, my husband and I were supposed to spend the 4th of July together, just us. But a week before, his mom called. “Maybe the parade’s not a good idea for her. It’s too loud. Too crowded. She should rest.” Honestly, not a crazy idea. I’ve had awful migraines lately, and one hit just two days before. So when my husband told me he was still gonna go with his parents and grandpa because “it means the world to him,” I just smiled, kissed his cheek, and told him to enjoy it. A little part of me felt left out, but I understood. Family is important. He left before dawn. I woke up hours later, groggy but ready for a quiet day of nesting. I padded into the kitchen to make some tea. That’s when it happened. A sudden, violent CRACK. The sound was deafening, like a gunshot. The old faucet, the one we’d been meaning to replace, EXPLODED. Water sprayed everywhere, geysering from the sink, hitting the ceiling, soaking the cabinets.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I screamed. I WAS STANDING IN A SHOWER OF ICY WATER, MY HANDS CLUTCHING MY SWOLLEN BELLY, TERRIFIED. The floor was instantly slick. I fumbled, slipping, almost going down. My phone. Where was my phone? I scrambled, hands shaking, dialing his number. It rang. And rang. Straight to voicemail. Of course. He’d be at the parade, loud music, poor signal. I tried again. Nothing.
The water was rising around my ankles. I managed to find the main shut-off valve, my pregnant body contorting in ways it wasn’t meant to. The water stopped, but the damage was done. My beautiful, clean kitchen was a disaster zone. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the cold spray still dripping from the cabinets. I sat on the soaking wet floor, exhausted, defeated, and utterly alone. I called three plumbers before one finally said he could squeeze me in late afternoon. The hours dragged, each tick of the clock amplifying my isolation.
When the plumber finally arrived, he took one look at the waterlogged mess and whistled low. “Looks like a real fun 4th of July for you, ma’am.” He was kind, thank god. He started pulling things apart, assessing the damage. The burst pipe wasn’t just a simple fix; he had to get behind the wall, under the sink, into the guts of the cabinet. I watched him work, numb. My phone was silent. Not a single text or call from my husband. He must be having such a great time.
The plumber grunted, pulling at a stubborn, waterlogged panel under the sink. It came loose with a splintering sound. Behind it, nestled in a hidden recess, was a dusty shoebox. It looked old, forgotten. “Well, look at this,” he mumbled, pulling it out. “Looks like someone’s got a little time capsule here.” He handed it to me. It wasn’t ours. I’d never seen it before. My husband and I had lived in this house for three years. How could I not know about this?
My hands trembled as I took the box. It was surprisingly heavy. My fingers traced the worn cardboard. A strange compulsion gripped me. I slowly lifted the lid. Inside, nestled amongst faded tissue paper, were photos. Old photos, some yellowed with age, some newer. And letters. My breath caught. I picked up the first photo. It was him. MY HUSBAND. He was smiling, his arm around a woman I didn’t recognize. She was beautiful, laughing. And in her arms, a child. A baby. Blond curls, chubby cheeks, bright blue eyes.
My stomach dropped. I sifted through more photos. Birthday parties. Christmases. Vacations. All of them, him, this woman, and the child. The dates on the back. They weren’t old, from before we met. THEY WERE FROM THE LAST FOUR YEARS. Dates that perfectly aligned with his “business trips,” his “conferences,” his “visits to his sick aunt out of state.”
I stared at the last photo, the newest one. Him, the woman, and a child—now a toddler, maybe three years old—all laughing on a beach. A sandcastle at their feet. The sun glinting off a wedding band on his finger. Not the one I gave him. A DIFFERENT RING.
The room spun. The dripping water, the plumber’s gentle cough, it all faded into a distant hum. My vision blurred. IT WASN’T JUST A PARADE. HIS MOTHER’S WORDS ECHOED IN MY HEAD: “SHE SHOULD REST.” SHE DIDN’T WANT ME TO KNOW. NONE OF THEM DID. THEY WERE ALL COMPLICIT. My husband wasn’t at a 4th of July parade with his family. He was with his other family.
And I, 25 weeks pregnant with our first baby, was sitting on a wet kitchen floor, holding proof that my entire life was a lie.
