After meeting my husband's mistress in the hospital maternity ward

I hadn't slept a single minute. The image of Claire Davis's ultrasound name crossed my mind every time I closed my eyes.

At ten in the morning, the front lock clicked.

The heavy oak door swung open.

Paul walked into the foyer. A woman stepped inside right behind him.

Claire.

She wore a soft beige trench coat. Her dark hair rested over her shoulders.

"Leah, come out here," Paul called into the house.

I emerged from the kitchen. My fingers gripped the edge of my sweater.

"Claire will stay here temporarily," Paul said. His voice was completely flat, as if he were discussing a delivery schedule.

I stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"She will teach Nick painting," he added.

I shifted my gaze to Claire. In the bright morning light flooding through the entryway windows, the similarities punched me in the gut.

The exact slope of her nose. The sharp angle of her jaw. The almond shape of her eyes.

She looked like me. Or rather, I looked like her. A seventy percent match.

Twelve years of a freezing, distant marriage suddenly snapped into focus. I wasn't his chosen partner. I was a placeholder. A convenient replica.

"You brought her to our house?" I asked.

"It makes sense," Paul replied. "She needs a quiet place to stay, and Nick needs an art tutor."

"Nick hates art."

"He likes it now."

"Paul, she is pregnant. And so am I."

"Which is why you shouldn't be shouting," Paul said. "Keep your voice down."

"Where is she going to sleep?" I demanded.

"The east guest room," Paul answered.

"That is right next to Nick's room."

"Exactly. It's convenient."

Footsteps pounded rapidly down the stairs. Nick skidded into the foyer, ignoring the tablet he had been glued to yesterday.

"Ms. Claire!" Nick yelled.

He ran straight past me. He threw his small arms around Claire's waist.

My stomach dropped. Yesterday, my son had violently shoved me away for simply asking for a hug.

Claire smiled brightly and patted his head. "Hi, Nicky. Are you ready for our first lesson?"

"Yes!" Nick beamed. He looked up at her with pure adoration.

"Nick," I said, taking a step forward. "You don't even own paintbrushes."

My son shot me a nasty scowl. "Dad bought me a whole set this morning. You wouldn't know anyway. You don't know how to draw."

"I can learn with you," I offered.

"No, you can't," Nick snapped. "You don't understand art at all. Ms. Claire is a real artist."

I looked at Paul, expecting him to correct our son's disrespect.

Paul just checked his watch. "I have to take a conference call in the home office. Settle in, Claire."

He walked down the hall and shut his office door.

"Nick, go set up your easel in the sunroom," Claire instructed.

"Okay!" Nick sprinted down the hallway, his laughter echoing off the walls.

The second my son disappeared, Claire's warm, motherly smile vanished.

She set her leather overnight bag on the floor. Her hand moved to her collarbone. She pulled a silver pendant from beneath her shirt, making sure I saw it.

A small, engraved sunburst.

I recognized it instantly. I had found the empty velvet box for it in Paul's childhood bedroom shortly after we got married.

"Do you like it?" Claire asked.

"Put that away," I said.

Claire stepped closer. The innocent act dropped completely. "Some things, no matter how many years pass, still belong to their original owner."

My nails bit into my palms. The skin stung, but I forced myself to hold her gaze.

"You think a necklace proves something?" I asked.

"It proves he kept it," Claire said. "For twelve years."

"He married me."

"Because I left."

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. "Since you're already back," I said, keeping my tone steady, "why move into my house?"

Claire tilted her head. A sweet, sickly smile spread across her lips.

"Because Paul said there was always a place for me here," she answered.

"This is my home. I am his wife."

"Are you?" Claire whispered. "Or are you just keeping my seat warm?"

"Get out of my sight."

"I'm going to the sunroom," Claire said. "Nick is waiting for me."

She picked up her bag and walked past me, intentionally brushing her shoulder against mine.

***

The house felt like enemy territory. I spent the entire afternoon in my bedroom. I refused to listen to the sounds of laughter drifting up from the sunroom.

By dinner time, my husband's deep chuckle joined them.

I didn't go downstairs to eat.

By eleven o'clock, the house finally fell silent.

I needed water. My throat felt completely dry.

I walked down the darkened hallway. My bare feet made no sound against the hardwood floor.

Light spilled from the crack under the study door.

I stopped walking.

"You need to take your vitamins, Claire."

Paul's voice. Soft. Gentle. The exact same tone he used in the clinic hallway yesterday.

"I took them," Claire replied.

I stepped closer to the heavy oak door. I pressed my shoulder against the wall.

"Are you comfortable in the guest room?" Paul asked.

"The bed is fine," Claire said. "But I feel terrible, Paul. Leah clearly hates me being here."

"Don't worry about Leah. I told you I handle things."

"She's your wife. She's pregnant with your baby, too."

"We're not talking about her right now," Paul said. "We're talking about you. And our child."

I squeezed my eyes shut. Hearing him claim her baby aloud, without hesitation, tore a fresh hole in my chest. He had questioned my pregnancy just twenty-four hours ago.

"But what happens after?" Claire asked. "I can't just be the art tutor forever. The baby will need a real family."

A brief silence settled over the room.

"Just trust me," Paul said. "When the baby is born, I'll give you an official status."

My hand hovered over the brass doorknob.

My fingers curled around the cold metal.

They froze.