At 9:26 a.m., I discovered that my husband had been lying to me.
Adrian had told me he was flying to Denver for an important business meeting. He had kissed my forehead that morning, promised to call me when he landed, and walked out of our house carrying his suitcase.
But twenty minutes after my prenatal appointment, I saw him in the maternity ward of a hospital in Columbus, Ohio.
And he wasn’t alone.
A young pregnant woman was leaning against him, gripping his arm as he helped her walk down the hallway. He carried her overnight bag while speaking to her in a gentle voice I hadn’t heard directed at me in months.
“Easy, Maren. Take a deep breath. I’m right here.”
I stopped walking.
For a moment, I wondered whether exhaustion was playing tricks on me. I was twenty-eight weeks pregnant myself, and the last few weeks had been emotionally draining.
Then Adrian turned his head.
Our eyes met.
The expression on his face changed so dramatically that I knew, before he said a single word, that I had just uncovered something he desperately wanted to keep hidden.
“Hannah?”
I tightened my grip on my phone.
“I thought you were flying to Denver.”
He opened his mouth, but no explanation came.
The young woman beside him suddenly doubled over, clutching her stomach.
“Adrian, it hurts!”
He immediately caught her and helped her toward a nearby chair.
“Stay with me, Maren. You’re going to be okay.”
A nurse hurried over.
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“About four minutes,” Adrian answered without hesitation.
The nurse nodded and turned toward the pregnant woman.
“All right, sweetheart. We’re going to get you checked right away.”
Then she glanced at Adrian.
“And you are?”
He hesitated.
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Yes, Adrian. Please tell us. I’d love to know too.”
He stepped toward me.
“Hannah, please. Not here.”
“Not here?” I repeated. “You lied about where you were going, and now you’re standing in a maternity ward with another pregnant woman. Where exactly would you prefer we discuss this?”
Several people turned to look at us.
Maren slowly raised her head.
Her eyes moved from Adrian to me, and something resembling fear appeared on her face.
“Adrian,” she whispered, “who is she?”
I stared at her.
“I’m his wife.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Maren’s fingers slipped from Adrian’s arm.
“Your wife?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I can explain everything.”
“Then explain,” I replied.
He looked around nervously, as though he were searching for an escape route.
Maren’s eyes filled with tears.
“You told me you were separated.”
My heart seemed to stop.
Separated?
Adrian had never mentioned another woman, let alone a separation. Just three weeks earlier, he had been helping me assemble the crib for our baby. He had held my hand during an ultrasound and promised that our little girl would have the happiest childhood imaginable.
Now another pregnant woman was telling me that my husband had claimed our marriage was over.
I turned toward him.
“How long have you been telling people that?”
He reached for my hand.
“Hannah, listen to me. It’s complicated.”
I pulled away.
“No. Complicated is choosing a name for a baby. Complicated is figuring out how we’re going to balance work and parenthood. This is lying.”
Maren began crying.
“I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know you were still together.”
I looked at her carefully.
“How long have you known him?”
She lowered her eyes.
“Almost a year.”
A year.
The words echoed through my mind.
For nearly twelve months, Adrian had apparently been living a double life while I believed we were preparing for our first child together.
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