Some say betrayal feels like drowning—you don’t realize how deep you’ve sunk until you try to breathe. I learned that truth one Tuesday in April when I came home early from a business trip and discovered my husband’s secret hiding behind the guest room door. Matt had missed yet another fertility clinic appointment. I sat alone in the cold waiting room, flipping through parenting magazines while he ignored my texts—just like the last two times. When I got home, there he was,

laughing into his gaming headset, not even pretending to care. I wanted a baby more than anything. I worked harder, traveled more, and kept chasing promotions, thinking we were building a future. But the truth was, I was doing it alone. Three months later, I surprised him by coming home early after landing a major client. There was a small pink bicycle on our porch. Inside, I was greeted by a nervous Matt and a locked guest room. Then came the sound—a child’s giggle. I opened the door and found a little girl playing with stuffed animals. “Are you the evil witch?”