I was wrong about all of it.

The pregnancy test had confirmed what I’d suspected for two weeks: I was carrying the child of a man who belonged to someone else. Three pink lines that changed everything, that transformed me from the woman I thought I was into someone I’d always judged harshly from the comfortable distance of moral certainty.

My phone buzzed with a text from Alex: “Can’t wait to see you tonight. I have something special planned.”

Alex Morrison. Thirty-five years old, senior architect at the firm where I’d been working for two years, married to a woman named Christina for eight years. Father to twin boys, ages five. And for the past four months, the center