My father-in-law passed away, and my husband and I went back to his hometown for the funeral. During the wake that night, I caught my husband and his brother’s wife tangled up in each other in the dark utility closet. That very same night, I got my revenge. Later, I got pregnant. My husband and his brother both thought the baby was theirs. I was woken up by the sound of rain beating against the window. Thinking of the backyard reception tent for the wake, I decided to get up, change, and bring Logan an umbrella while he kept vigil. As I passed the old utility room, I heard hushed voices whispering inside. I stopped in my tracks. The lights were off. It was pitch black inside. I was standing right by the door. Although they were speaking in quiet murmurs, their voices were crystal clear. And I knew those voices all too well. It was my husband, Logan, and his brother’s wife, Fiona! “Logan, this is wrong. We shouldn’t be doing this.” “Then don’t hold me so tight.” “Just one last time, okay?” “Fiona, that’s exactly what you said last time.” … I stood there, dazed. I remembered a science teacher once saying that rainy days bring low atmospheric pressure. Is that why I felt like I couldn’t breathe? I reached out to push the door open, but the moment my hand touched the brass knob, I froze. I turned to walk away, only to see a man standing silently at the corner of the hallway. It was Brandon, Logan’s older brother. He was holding an umbrella and a woman’s coat in his hands. When he saw me looking, he gave me a silent nod and quietly walked away. As if possessed, I followed him. In his bedroom, Brandon stood by the open window, smoking a cigarette. I walked up, pulled the cigarette from his fingers, and kissed him. He didn’t push me away, but he didn’t react either. He stood there like a statue, letting me do whatever I wanted. A wave of humiliation washed over me. Just as I was about to step back and give up, he suddenly pulled me flush against his chest and kissed me back fiercely. The cold rain drifted in through the window. I shivered, my mind suddenly snapping back to reality. I started to regret this. But in the next second, my eyes fell on the framed wedding photo of Brandon and Fiona hanging on the wall. Thinking of Fiona and Logan tangled up downstairs at this very moment, I pulled Brandon onto the bed. Brandon’s movements were rough and intense. Unaccustomed to it, I frowned and instinctively pushed his shoulder. Sensing my resistance, Brandon paused. He spoke his first and only words of the night. “Georgia, do you regret this?” he whispered. My only response was to tilt my head up and press my lips against his Adam’s apple. He let out a sharp, ragged breath, and then things got even more intense. When it was all over, Brandon and I dressed in silence. Before leaving, I took one last look at the wedding photo on the wall. Fiona was leaning into Brandon’s chest, looking shy and blissfully happy. Back in my own room, I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep, but I drifted off almost instantly. When I woke up the next morning, Logan was already back. He was half-asleep, pulling me into his arms. “Babe, sleep with me a little longer. I’m so exhausted.” He drifted off again. I stared at a faint red mark on his neck. I stared until my eyes burned, then closed them, sinking back into Logan’s embrace. Sleeping chest-to-chest, our breaths mingling. Anyone looking at us would think we were the perfect, loving couple. My father-in-law’s funeral was a big affair, following the traditions of their small town. A white tent was set up in the backyard, and somber acoustic music played from morning till night. On the night before the burial, the town gathered for a small memorial service. The neighbors watching muttered, “The Miller boys are so dutiful. They really did right by their father.” Fiona handed me an apple. She smiled warmly. “Around here, we like to keep things lively for a send-off. Quite different from your big-city ways, huh?” I rolled the apple in my hand. Hearing her subtle distinction between “us” and “you,” I smiled. “Yes, it really is different.” “Right?” She smiled back, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She looked so gentle. She then sweetly gave me some advice on what to expect as a daughter-in-law during the burial tomorrow. She even whispered a little tip: if I couldn’t cry, I could rub a little sliced ginger on my sleeve. “Everyone does it,” she whispered with a wink. “Just don’t use too much, or people will smell it.” She was the picture-perfect, caring sister-in-law. If I hadn’t heard her with Logan last night, I would have genuinely appreciated her kindness.
Three days after the funeral, Brandon drove Logan and me to the train station. At the station, Logan went to grab our bags from the trunk. Brandon looked at me deeply and said, “Take care of yourself.” When Logan walked over, Brandon patted his shoulder. “Call me when you get home.” The brothers shared a quick hug before we parted. After an eight-hour train ride, we finally arrived back at our apartment in New York. Logan slumped onto the couch. “Even though I grew up in Ridgeville, I guess I’ve gotten too used to city life. It’s good to be home.” Ridgeville was his hometown, a small mountain town hundreds of miles away from New York City. Back in the city, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Our routine went right back to normal. Logan and I worked during the day. At night, whoever got home first cooked dinner, and the other washed the dishes. We were perfectly in sync. When the mood struck, we had our usual intimacy—two or three times a week, regular and healthy. Logan was always gentle, always paying close attention to my needs. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how desperate he had sounded in that dark utility room with Fiona. And I couldn’t forget Brandon’s fierce, almost wild touch that night. A few weeks later, I woke up feeling extremely nauseous. On my way home from work, I stopped by a pharmacy. When I got home, Logan wasn’t back yet. I went into the bathroom. Five minutes later, I saw two clear pink lines. When Logan walked through the door, I was sitting on the couch, staring into space. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?” He pressed his hand against my forehead, concerned. “Logan, I…” The words caught in my throat. He didn’t rush me. He just waited patiently, warm and attentive. I forced a perfect smile. “I’m pregnant.” I handed him the test. “Oh my god!” he gasped, his face lighting up. “I’m going to be a dad! This is amazing!” He immediately kissed me. “Are you feeling okay? Are you hungry? Let me make dinner right now.” While he was cooking, I could hear him humming a cheerful tune in the kitchen. His joy was palpable. The next day, we both took time off work to go to the clinic. The doctor smiled and congratulated us. “You’re definitely pregnant. About eight weeks along. The baby is developing perfectly. Just make sure to come in for regular prenatal visits.” Logan kept asking questions about what to do and what to avoid, to the point where the doctor looked amused. “Sorry, Doc,” Logan apologized with a sheepish grin. “It’s my first time being a dad. I’m just really excited.” Then he leaned in to ask yet another question. I gently stroked my still-flat belly, my mind drifting. Eight weeks. When exactly had I conceived? Was it during my birthday dinner right after we got back to the city? Or… was it that night in Ridgeville? After finding out about the pregnancy, Logan became even more doting. He came home straight after work. If he had extra tasks, he brought his laptop home to work beside me. Aside from cooking dinner, he started waking up an hour early every morning to prepare breakfast for me. I thought his enthusiasm would fade after a few weeks, but he kept it up for the entire pregnancy. He also insisted on rubbing cocoa butter on my belly and massaging my swollen legs every night. One evening, he made my favorite shrimp dish. He peeled every single one and placed them in my bowl, barely eating any himself. After dinner, he served a bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt. “Hey, babe,” he said in a pleading tone. “My company needs me to go on a business trip. I tried to get out of it, but I really can’t.” “Work is important,” I smiled. “Besides, I’m not a baby. I can handle a few days alone.” “Thank you, babe. You’re the best.” He hugged me tightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get back as fast as I can.” The trip was for a week. Before leaving, he prepped meals for the next few days and cleaned the entire apartment top to bottom. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he told me as he kissed my forehead. “I’ll clean up whatever’s left when I get back. I’ll FaceTime you every day.” He kept his word. Every night at 8:00 PM, his face popped up on my screen. On the last night of his trip, he looked a bit nostalgic. “I’m actually quite close to Ridgeville right now. It’s only about an hour’s drive. I think I’m going to head back there tonight.” He sighed softly. “I want to visit my dad’s grave and tell him the good news. He’s going to be a grandfather.” “Okay,” I nodded. “Give my best to Brandon and Fiona.” Logan poured out a few more sweet, caring words before reluctantly hanging up. But the next night at 8:00 PM, my phone didn’t ring.
It was Brandon who FaceTimed me. By then, it was almost midnight. The camera was pointed at a familiar door. I recognized it instantly—it was the utility room in Logan’s old family home. The muffled audio coming through the speaker was a haunting echo of the past. “Logan, you’re hurting me… don’t do that.” “Don’t do what, Fiona? Say it.” … I listened, completely numb, until Brandon ended the call. A tear fell onto my screen. I stared at the dark glass, watching my own tear-stained reflection. Months after discovering my husband’s affair, I finally broke down and sobbed in our empty apartment. Logan called me early the next morning. He apologized profusely, claiming he had had a few drinks with his brother, got drunk, and crashed, forgetting to call. “It’s fine,” I said quietly. “I knew you went back home. I wasn’t worried.” His eyes flickered with a brief flash of guilt. “I’m so sorry, babe. I broke my promise.” Then he immediately pivoted to asking how I was sleeping, how I was feeling, and if the baby was kicking. I gave him distracted, hollow answers. At one point, when he asked what I had eaten for dinner, I told him the movie I watched was boring. He was so preoccupied he didn’t even notice the nonsensical response. He returned on the weekend. I was sitting on the couch, eating french fries and watching TV. “That’s junk food, babe. Not good for the baby. Try to eat less of that,” he said with a warm smile. “Let me peel an apple for you.” When he walked out of the kitchen with the sliced apple, I just stared at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he teased. “Missed me that much?” I pointed to his neck. “What’s that red mark?” Logan froze for a split second. He instinctively covered his neck with his hand. “Oh, this? Probably a mosquito bite. I must have scratched it. You know how bad the bugs are near the mountains in Ridgeville.” I nodded slowly. “Put some calamine lotion on it.” I didn’t call him out. It was late autumn. From that day on, Logan was even more attentive. But whenever I fell asleep, the nightmares took over. In my dreams, it was always raining. A relentless, endless downpour. And there was always that utility room door. On one side of the door, Logan and Fiona were locked in their desperate embrace. On the other side, Brandon and I were violently clinging to each other. Despite being in my third trimester, when I should have been gaining weight, I was visibly wasting away. Logan was worried sick. He cooked elaborate meals, practically glowing with relief whenever I managed to eat a few bites. On the day I went into labor, the doctor told me my husband was sobbing like a baby in the waiting room, completely ignoring the stares of strangers. The delivery nurse looked at me with envy. “If my future husband is even half as caring as yours, I’ll thank God every day.” I smiled but said nothing. His love for me was real. But his betrayal was also real. Just like my father. When my mother was recovering postpartum with me, my father had an affair with her younger sister, Aunt Sarah. After my mother found out, she packed her bags, divorced him, and left the country. We never heard from her again. My father was devastated. He spent the next few decades drowning in regret. Aunt Sarah cried, begged, and even threatened suicide, but my father refused to touch her. He said the only woman he ever loved was my mother. He never remarried, never dated, and dedicated his life entirely to raising me. Two years after I got married, he took his own life. In his suicide note, he wrote that his biggest regret was succumbing to a “moment of passion,” an impulse that cost him the love of his life forever. That was why I despised the phrase “moment of passion” more than anything. But now, I had become the very person I hated. “Babe, I think his eyes look just like mine,” Logan’s voice pulled me back from my memories. “But he has your nose and face shape. What do you think?” I looked closely at the newborn. To me, all newborns looked exactly the same. Logan chuckled. “True. We’ll see who he looks like when he grows a bit more.” My heart skipped a beat, pounding violently against my ribs. That dark, suppressed question surfaced in my mind once again.
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