She had left our house that morning around 9:30 AM, saying she had a sudden, terrible migraine and needed to go home to sleep.

My mind started to connect dots that I didn’t want to exist.

I remember just standing there staring at the floor because my brain genuinely stopped working for a second.

I picked up my phone and called her. It rang four times before going straight to voicemail.

I called again. Nothing.

I felt a sick, hollow panic rising from my stomach. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone.

I walked out to my Chevy, didn’t even grab a coat, and started driving toward her apartment complex on the other side of town.

It was raining. The windshield wipers on my car made a dry, irritating scratching sound because I forgot to turn the fluid on. I didn’t care.

I kept telling myself I was being crazy. I was being a paranoid, jealous woman who couldn’t have a baby, and I was going to ruin my marriage and my best friendship in one morning.

But when I pulled into the parking lot of the Pine Crest apartments, my heart seemed to stop.

There, parked right in front of Rachel’s building, was Mark’s black Ford F-150.

He was supposed to be at a job site in Maumee, 30 minutes in the opposite direction.

I parked three rows back, under a dripping maple tree. And I just sat there.

I sat in that cold car for 45 minutes.

I didn’t call him. I didn’t call her. I just watched the rain run down my side window, my chest aching so badly I could barely take a full breath.

I don’t even know why I stayed in the car so long. I think a part of me already knew that once I opened that car door, my life as I knew it was over.

Finally, I couldn’t take the waiting anymore.

I walked up the concrete steps to the second floor. My boots felt like lead.

Just as I reached the top landing, Rachel’s door clicked and began to swing open.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Rachel stepped out onto the welcome mat, holding a small trash bag.

She was wearing a grey flannel shirt. It was Mark’s shirt. I knew it instantly because of the dark grease stain on the left cuff from when he had worked on his truck’s radiator.

She saw me standing there.

She froze.

Her face lost all of its color. She slowly placed her hand over her flat stomach, looked me dead in the eye, and didn’t even try to deny it.

“I’m sorry, Ellen,” she said, her voice incredibly calm, almost practiced. “But we are going to be a family now. He’s leaving you.”