Most people have secrets, but some are so dark they’re taken to the grave. That’s what I believed my husband had — until everything unraveled during my second pregnancy.

I was five weeks from giving birth, often exhausted and emotional. My best friend Ava insisted I get out of the house and suggested a pottery painting night. Though I was reluctant, she convinced me we could make decorations for the baby’s nursery. She’d even arranged for my husband, Malcolm, to watch our daughter, Tess.

At the event, about 15 women were chatting and laughing. One woman shared a story about her boyfriend who once left a date abruptly because his sister-in-law was in labor. “It was July 4th, Olivia was having her baby,” she said. That caught my attention — my name is Olivia, and my daughter Tess was born on July 4th.

Then she added, “Malcolm missed our son’s birth six months later because he was babysitting Tess.” Ava and I exchanged horrified looks. I asked her directly: “Your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?” She nodded. I showed her a photo of my family. She froze and whispered, “Your husband? He’s the father of my child too.”

My world shattered.

The event turned into a nightmare as I rushed to the bathroom in tears. Later that day, I confronted Malcolm. He admitted everything — the affair, the child. I couldn’t believe the betrayal. Now, I’m eating chocolate, trying to stay calm, and searching for a divorce lawyer.