Chapter 1

The day my husband forces me to get an abortion, he tells me he hates kids.

After that, I stop pushing him for a baby, even though I want one so badly.

Two years later, the day before Thanksgiving, Grant asks me to drop off gift baskets for three children he sponsors.

He says their mothers are raising them alone.

"You love kids. I know I can count on you.

When I arrive at the daycare, a teacher greets me.

"Mrs. Callahan, your three children are in different classrooms. Which one would you like to see first?"

I freeze.

"My children?"

She looks confused and hands me three enrollment forms.

Three children. Three different mothers.

His childhood friend.

His first girlfriend.

His secretary.

Under "Father," every form lists the same name.

Grant Callahan.

The teacher notices how pale I've gone and hands me a phone.

"Your husband left this at our family day last week. We've kept it charged for him."

It's his spare phone.

I know the passcode.

It opens to a group chat called [Callahan Kids].

All three women are in it, along with his friends.

Everyone but his wife.

The latest message is an old photo of me, crouched down, tying one of the children's shoes.

Brooke, his childhood friend, writes:

[Look at Mrs. Callahan playing mommy. She's pretty good at it.]

Lauren, his secretary, replies:

[Free childcare. Might as well use it.]

Laughing emojis fill the screen.

Someone asks, [Whose place tonight, Grant?]

His reply comes almost instantly.

[Same as always. Two nights each.]

[Sundays with my wife so she doesn't get suspicious.]

My hands are shaking by the time I scroll back to two years ago, the day of my abortion.

One of his friends had asked:

[You're really not keeping the baby with your wife?]

[It's taken care of.]

[She loves kids. She can help raise ours.]

That same day, still cramping from the procedure, I'd delivered a gift for his youngest.

I stare at the messages.

A short, humorless laugh comes out of me.

He only hates kids when they're mine.

I don't cry.

I don't call him demanding an explanation.

I photograph everything and send it to my lawyer.

[File for divorce. Find out how much of our money he's given these women.]

Then I book a flight to Chicago.

Grant has three children. Three women. Three homes.

But he's about to lose the only wife he has.

...

On my way to the airport, the daycare teacher texts me a tuition invoice.

[Mrs. Callahan, should we charge your account for all three children's tuition next term?]

[No. Contact their father from now on.]

For years I believed Grant's story and paid for these children's care, never once imagining they were his.

What a joke.

His name flashes on my screen before I can close the chat.

"You left divorce papers at the house?"

I don't answer that.

"What does ‘two nights each’ mean?"

A pause.

"So you know?"

"Yes."

"Then let's be honest, for once."

"Monday through Saturday, I stay with them. Sundays, I come home."

"We've been married five years. I've spent every Sunday with you, haven't I?"

Every Monday, he takes a suitcase and leaves on a "business trip."

Every Sunday night, I pack it for him again.

All this time, he hasn't even been going to the airport.

He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"They don't get to be my wife, Natalie."

"They had my kids, so I bought them houses. That's it."

"You're the one I love."

My grip tightens on the phone until my knuckles hurt.

"You think I didn't want a baby?"

He actually laughs.

"You're Mrs. Callahan. You have everything already."

"Why do you need what they have, too?"

"I promised them the money would split three ways. Another baby just means less for each of them."

He's accounted for everyone. Everyone except me.

"I'm not signing."

"I'll be home Sunday. We'll talk then."

The line goes dead before I can answer.

I open a video I saved from his phone.

It was filmed five years ago, on our wedding day.

The three women are sitting by a restaurant window across from the courthouse.

His childhood friend, Brooke, sets a positive pregnancy test on the table.

Vanessa, his first girlfriend, asks, "She's about to be your wife. Where does that leave us?"

"Have one baby each. I'll buy you houses and cover everything."

His secretary, Lauren, looks out the window.

"What if she wants a baby, too?"

Across the street, I'm waiting outside the courthouse with our paperwork.

Grant looks at me through the glass.

"She gets to marry me. She can't have everything."

They raise their glasses.

He picks up our marriage license and crosses the street.

He smooths my hair, kisses my forehead, and takes my hand as we walk inside.

The women laugh off camera.

"She gets a piece of paper. We get his kids."

He was half an hour late that day.

He told me he'd been stuck in traffic.

Before he'd even reached me, he'd already promised his children and his money to other women.

All I got was a piece of paper.

As my flight starts boarding, a message arrives.

[Just come home. Nothing has to change.]

I block him and forward the video to my lawyer.

[Keep this as evidence, too.]

Then I board the plane.

For five years, I waited at home for him every Sunday.

This time, he can wait for me.