No way… it was my name.
The nurse called me back, and as I stood, Jack looked up. Our eyes met. His face drained of color.
“Emily?” he whispered.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice shaking.
The nurse paused, confused. “You two know each other?”
“Yes,” Jack said quickly. “She’s my wife.”
The room went dead quiet.
Jack stood up, rubbing his hands together. “I can explain.”
I crossed my arms. “Please do. Because you just texted me that you were at work.”
He swallowed. “I wasn’t here for me. I’m not sick. I’m here because… I’m having a child.”
I felt like the air had been knocked out of my chest.
“With who?” I asked, even though my body already knew the answer.
He exhaled. “With Sarah. My coworker.”
The nurse gently cleared her throat and asked if we wanted privacy. I nodded, numb.
Jack kept talking — how it “just happened,” how he “didn’t mean for it to go this far,” how he was “trying to do the right thing.” He said Sarah was inside with the doctor. He’d come to support her because she was scared.
I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my mind couldn’t hold the weight of it otherwise.
“You lied to me,” I said. “You cheated. And you brought your affair into the one place I come to feel safe.”
He reached for me. I stepped back.
“I’m done,” I said. “I won’t compete with someone who doesn’t know how to be faithful.”
I went through my appointment alone, tears sliding silently into the paper gown. When I got home, I packed a bag. By the time Jack arrived, the house felt lighter — emptier, but honest.
The divorce was final six months later.
I still go to that OB-GYN. Different days. Different waiting room chair. Same doctor.
And every time I sit there now, I remind myself: I trusted my instincts — and I chose myself.
