She was in her early thirties, perhaps a little younger. Her dark hair fell neatly over her shoulders, and she wore a fitted cream coat over a dress that emphasized her pregnant belly.
One hand rested protectively on it.
The other held a leather handbag.
She looked polished, confident, and completely comfortable standing outside my home.
Then she smiled.
“Debra Mitchell?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“My name is Rachel.”
She paused, watching my face as though she expected recognition.
When I didn’t react, she continued.
“I work with Tyler.”
I felt something tighten in my stomach.
“At his company?”
“Yes.”
She looked past me into the hallway.
Then she said the words that changed everything.
“I’m pregnant with your husband’s son.”
For a moment, the world seemed to become strangely quiet.
I could hear the refrigerator humming behind me. Somewhere outside, a car passed along the street.
But Rachel’s words kept repeating in my mind.
