My husband’s best friend’s widow posted an ultrasound photo on Instagram. “Thank you for your sperm. You gave me a baby of my own. ❤️ #BarrettBaby” She didn’t tag anyone. But in the corner of the photo, on the sonogram printout, the partner information line read: Preston Barrett. I dropped a question mark in the comments. Less than thirty seconds later, his call blew up my phone. “What the hell were you thinking, leaving a comment like that on a public post?” “She’s a widow, Audrey. She lives alone. All she wants is a baby. Can’t you have a little empathy?” “Evan was my brother. He’s gone, so taking care of Ronnie is the right thing to do. It’s called loyalty. Do you even understand that?” A week later, that woman posted a SoHo loft—exposed brick walls, twelve-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city skyline. “Thank you for turning this house into a home.” In the photo, Preston stood at the kitchen island, pouring red wine. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off the Patek Philippe I gave him as an anniversary gift. I figured this marriage needed to end too. … When Preston came home, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a pregnancy test. Two lines. Eight weeks. We’d been married for five years. I was finally pregnant. I should’ve been ecstatic. I should’ve run out and thrown my arms around him, told him we were finally having a baby of our own. But I just tucked the test into the nightstand drawer, picked up my phone, and booked an OB-GYN appointment for the next day. Preston set a brown paper bag on the marble countertop and walked over to kiss my forehead. “I brought you lobster bisque from Le Bernardin.” I glanced at the container inside. The soup had separated, a thin layer of oil floating on top. I didn’t reach for it. “I’m not hungry.” He poured the bisque into a bowl anyway and brought it over to me. “Come on. You always love this.” The cold lobster bisque smelled fishy. My stomach lurched, and I ran to the bathroom and threw up. He followed me in and tried to rub my back. I smacked his hand away. “Don’t touch me.” That finally set him off. “What do you want from me? I’m trying to make it right. Isn’t that enough?” “I didn’t even give you a hard time about that Instagram comment, and you’re still not letting this go?” He looked completely self-righteous, like I was the one in the wrong. I looked at him, my voice shaking. “So you think I should be congratulating the woman carrying my husband’s child?” Preston yanked off his tie, his tone irritated. “Evan is dead. Ronnie wanted a baby to fill the void in her life. What’s wrong with that? I was Evan’s best friend. It was my responsibility to help her have that baby.” “And we never slept together. We did it through a fertility clinic—artificial insemination. Do you really have to make such a huge deal out of this?” “Right now, you’re being absolutely—” “Absolutely what?” “Unreasonable.” Unreasonable. When Evan first passed, I felt for Ronnie too. She became a widow at twenty-five. I used to invite her over for dinner all the time. When the power went out in her apartment, Preston and I both went over to help. Back then, Ronnie would say with red-rimmed eyes that if only Evan were still here, she wouldn’t have to trouble us. I’d tell her it was no trouble. That’s what friends are for. Preston would thump his chest and promise her she could call him anytime she needed anything. I thought he was just keeping a promise to his dead brother. Later, things started to shift. Without me knowing, Preston would go alone to help her haul Costco runs, go to her place to assemble Wayfair furniture, even drive over himself with burn cream when she burned her finger on the oven. Things he’d never once done for me without being asked. It didn’t sit right with me. Preston said he was just keeping his promise to Evan. I couldn’t argue with that. But I never imagined he’d “help” with something like this—having a baby. Did he ever stop to think that the child would call him Daddy and call Ronnie Mommy? What would that make me, his legal wife? What would it make the baby growing inside me? Preston got everything off his chest and finished with— “Think about it.” Then he slammed the door and left. At this hour, I knew exactly where he was headed. Sure enough, not long after, Ronnie updated her Instagram. In the photo, Preston’s hand rested on her belly. Caption: Baby daddy’s staying with us tonight. He says it finally feels like home here. ❤️ I looked at that photo and placed my hand on my own stomach. This baby—I hadn’t had the chance to tell him yet. And now, I didn’t see the point anymore.
Early the next morning, I went to that medical building on the Upper East Side. Dr. Carter’s practice was on the sixth floor. I had scheduled an ultrasound to confirm how far along I was and check on the baby. When the elevator doors opened, I saw Preston carefully guiding Ronnie toward me from the other end of the hallway. They sat down on a bench. Ronnie pointed at her ultrasound picture, saying something. Preston listened intently, jotting notes on his phone every so often. Without thinking, I rested my hand on my stomach. A sharp ache burned behind my eyes. I didn’t need this. I was about to turn around and take the stairs when Preston looked up and spotted me. His brows furrowed. “Are you following me?” Before I could say a word, Ronnie tugged at his sleeve, her voice anxious. “Preston, Audrey’s got the wrong idea, hasn’t she? Let me go explain. I don’t want this to cause problems between you two.” She made a move to stand up. Preston immediately pressed her back down into the chair. “You’re pregnant. Don’t get up. I’ll deal with this.” I had zero interest in that little performance and turned to leave. Preston grabbed my wrist so hard I nearly lost my balance. I steadied myself and looked up at his furious face. “Audrey, I made myself perfectly clear last night. How are you still not over this? And now you’re following me here?” I yanked my hand free. A red mark was already blooming around my wrist. “I don’t have time to follow you. I have a doctor’s appointment too.” He clearly didn’t believe me. “What’s your appointment for? Are you sick?” Ronnie suddenly stepped forward, tears brimming in her eyes, and grabbed my hand. “Audrey, after Evan died, I was so lonely. I just wanted a baby to keep me company. I’ve never once tried to come between you and Preston.” If all she really wanted was a baby, she could’ve gone to a sperm bank. There are hundreds of them in this country. But she picked Preston. I didn’t say anything. I just pulled my hand back. The next second, Ronnie clutched her forehead and started to collapse backward. “Preston… I think I’m going to faint…” Preston caught her, his face going pale. “Ronnie!” He whipped his head toward me, eyes blazing. “She’s pregnant, damn it! How could you push her?” I looked at them coldly. “I didn’t push her.” That only made him angrier. “I saw it with my own eyes, and you’re still lying? Thank god I caught her. If anything happened to her—” “I would never forgive you.” He wrapped his arm around Ronnie and walked away. I watched Preston’s back as he hovered protectively over her, and my hand instinctively moved to my own stomach. My baby. The baby we’d waited five years for. And his father was walking away with another pregnant woman in his arms. I took a deep breath and walked into the OB-GYN’s office. The doctor confirmed how far along I was and prescribed prenatal vitamins. I put the bottle in my bag and left the medical building. This baby—I decided to keep it. No matter what Preston chose, this baby was mine.
Preston didn’t come home for the next few days. I didn’t call to ask where he was. I booked a consultation with a divorce attorney and started going through my own financial records. The next time I saw Preston was on Ronnie’s Instagram. The man who never liked taking pictures together was wearing reindeer antlers, posing with Ronnie for maternity photos. Their hands layered on her belly, gazing at each other adoringly—looking exactly like a couple eagerly awaiting a new arrival. This time, I liked the photo. A few hours later, Preston called. He told me to come to his parents’ place for dinner that evening. By the time I arrived at the Barrett family townhouse on the Upper East Side—one of those old homes with stone steps and wrought-iron railings, with a doorman who’d never once smiled at me—someone else was already sitting in my seat at the dinner table. Ronnie. Patricia Barrett’s hand was resting on top of Ronnie’s. That woman, who hadn’t cracked a smile at me in five years, now had laugh lines crinkling the corners of her eyes. She’d never accepted me from the start. Preston marrying a girl from a middle-class family was, in her eyes, a downgrade for the Barrett name. Five years without a pregnancy just gave her a more legitimate reason to despise me. Ronnie saw me and flashed an apologetic smile. “Audrey, once Patricia found out about the pregnancy, she insisted I stay at the Hamptons house so she could look after me. Please don’t overthink it.” I ignored her, pulled out a chair off to the side, and sat down. Patricia Barrett barely glanced at me. Her hand still rested on Ronnie’s, her tone icy. “Five years, Audrey.” “Some women just aren’t meant to be mothers.” “And poor Ronnie—her husband gone, all alone in the world. Thank goodness Preston’s been taking care of her.” “Now she’s carrying the Barrett heir. I’m taking her to the Hamptons to stay. I assume you have no objections.” Her tone was a question. Her eyes were a notification. I nodded. “No objection.”
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