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That truth slid into my chest like broken glass. He had taken me to a mountain inn for Valentine’s weekend, held my face in both hands, told me he wanted a family with me—and all along, he had been sleeping with his assistant.
“You got me pregnant while cheating on me,” I said.
“It didn’t mean anything.”
Men always say that when the truth finally costs them something.
I looked around the nursery again and suddenly saw it for what it was: a set built on top of decay. He had helped choose none of it, cared about none of it, and still expected to stand at the center like he belonged.
When I told him Brittany had destroyed the car seat, his first reaction wasn’t horror. It was annoyance.
“She’s emotional,” he said. “I should have ended it more clearly.”
I stared at him. “She committed a felony while I was at my prenatal appointment.”
“I know that. I’m saying I can handle it.”
That sentence snapped something final inside me.
No, he couldn’t handle it. He had been “handling it” for eight months—and what that meant was lying to me, using marital money to fund an affair, feeding a delusional twenty-five-year-old fantasies about replacing me, and letting that fantasy grow until it took a tire iron to my life.
“Get out of the nursery,” I said.