Then he whispered, “I was wrong.”
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he said something unexpected.
“Vanessa and I were involved again.”
My stomach tightened.
I looked up.
“What?”
He lowered his eyes.
“Before the party.”
I felt cold.
“How long?”
He hesitated.
“About three months.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Then I closed my eyes.
The dinners.
The private conversations.
The way he’d dismissed my concerns.
The way Vanessa touched his arm.
I had been right.
And Adrian had been lying.
I took a breath.
“Did you love her?”
He looked down.
“I thought I did.”
I nodded.
“And now?”
He whispered, “No.”
I stared at him.
For a moment, I wanted to ask whether he expected that answer to comfort me.
Instead, I looked toward the window.
For months, I’d blamed myself for feeling jealous.
I’d worried that pregnancy hormones made me insecure.
Now I knew my instincts had been responding to real dishonesty.
I took a breath.
“Adrian, I need you to understand something.”
He looked up.
“The affair hurt.”
He nodded.
“But the worst part was lying on those steps and realizing you weren’t coming.”
His face crumpled.
I continued.
“I was begging you to help our baby.”
Tears ran down my cheeks.
“And you told me to stay there while you took care of the woman who pushed me.”
He began crying harder.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered, “I don’t know how to come back from that.”
Adrian reached toward my hand.
I moved it away gently.
His expression fell.
“Claire, please.”
I shook my head.
“I can’t rebuild our marriage around regret alone.”
He covered his face.
For a long time, we sat quietly.
