His Pregnant Mistress Revealed He Drove My Mother to Suicide

He comes home at eleven forty-three.

I know because I've been watching the clock. The burned loaf is still on the counter. I didn't touch it. Didn't throw it away. It sits there like evidence.

Dominic sets his keys in the bowl by the door. The sound is too loud in the quiet apartment. He doesn't turn on the lights. Just walks to the kitchen and stops when he sees me at the table.

"You're still up," he says.

I don't answer.

He pulls out the chair across from me. Sits. Folds his hands on the table. His shirt is wrinkled. There's a stain near the collar. Wine, maybe. Something dark.

"Lena—"

"Is it true?"

He looks at me. His face is calm. Too calm. Like he practiced this on the drive home.

"It's complicated," he says.

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

I wait. He doesn't continue.

"The certificate," I say. "Is it real?"

He shifts in his chair. "I can't explain everything right now."

"Try."

"I need you to trust me."

The words land wrong. Like he's speaking a language I used to know.

"Trust you," I repeat.

"Yes."

"The way I trusted you when you said we'd start a family? The way I trusted you when you made my supplements every morning? The way I trusted you when you said you loved me?"

His jaw tightens. Just a fraction. "This isn't about us."

"Then what is it about?"

"I'm handling something. Something that involves her. But it's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you married someone else."

"Lena—"

"It looks like she's pregnant. With your baby."

He doesn't deny it. He just sits there with his hands folded and his face empty.

I press my thumbnail into my palm. The skin is already broken from earlier. It stings.

"How long?" I ask.

"How long what?"

"How long have you been lying to me?"

He exhales. Slow. Controlled. "I haven't lied to you."

"You just haven't told me the truth."

"There's a difference."

I laugh. It comes out sharp. Wrong. "Is there?"

He leans forward. His eyes are steady. "I need more time. A few weeks. Maybe less. Then I can explain everything. But right now, I need you to wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For me to finish what I started."

I stare at him. At the man I've known since I was sixteen. The man who walked me home when I was too scared to be alone. The man who held me through five miscarriages and told me we'd keep trying.

I don't recognize him.

"I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow," I say.

He blinks. "What?"

"Follow-up. For the bloodwork."

He nods slowly. "Do you want me to come?"

"No."

Something flickers across his face. Too fast to name. "Okay."

I stand. My legs feel strange. Like they belong to someone else. "I'm going to bed."

He doesn't stop me. Doesn't call after me. I walk down the hall and close the bedroom door and sit on the edge of the mattress.

I don't sleep.

---

Dr. Huang's office smells like lavender and antiseptic. I sit in the chair by her desk and watch her pull up my file on the computer. She's wearing reading glasses today. They make her look older.

"Lena," she says. Her voice is careful. Too careful. "I want to go over your recent bloodwork."

I nod.

She turns the monitor so I can see it. There are numbers. Graphs. Things I don't understand. She points to a line that spikes higher than the others.

"We found elevated levels of a specific compound," she says. "It's been present in every test we've run over the past year. Consistently."

"What does that mean?"

She takes off her glasses. Folds them. Sets them on the desk. "This compound is known to interfere with early pregnancy. It can cause spontaneous termination in the first trimester."

The room is very quiet.

"Termination," I repeat.

She nods. "I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me."

I don't say anything.

"Are you taking any supplements? Vitamins? Anything that someone else prepares for you?"

My hands are in my lap. I look down at them. They're very still.

"Yes," I say.

"Who prepares them?"

I don't answer.

"Lena."

I stand. "I need a moment."

She starts to rise. "Lena—"

"Just a moment."

I walk to the bathroom. Lock the door. Turn on the faucet. The water runs cold over my hands. I grip the edge of the sink. The porcelain is smooth. Cool.

Five miscarriages.

Five times I lay in bed and felt the cramping start. Five times Dominic held me and said it wasn't my fault. Five times he made me tea and told me we'd try again.

Five times he handed me the supplement in the morning and watched me swallow it.

I count to sixty. Then I count again. On the third count, I turn off the water. Dry my hands. Walk back to the office.

Dr. Huang is standing. Her face is worried.

"I'm okay," I say.

She doesn't look convinced. "Do you want to sit?"

"No. Just tell me the rest."

She hesitates. Then she picks up a printout from her desk. "The compound we found is not something that occurs naturally. It would have to be introduced. Deliberately."

The word hangs in the air between us.

Deliberately.

"How long?" I ask.

She looks at the chart. "Based on the levels, I'd estimate it's been present for at least a year. Possibly longer."

A year.

I press my thumbnail into my palm. The broken skin splits wider. I feel the blood but I don't look down.

"Thank you," I say.

Dr. Huang steps closer. "Lena, if someone is doing this to you—"

"I understand."

"There are resources. People who can help. You don't have to—"

"I understand," I say again.

She hands me the printout. I fold it once. Twice. Slide it into my purse.

When I walk out of the office, the sun is too bright. I sit in my car in the parking garage and stare at the concrete wall.

My phone buzzes. Dominic's name.

*How did the appointment go?*

I read the message three times.

Then I turn off my phone.