I was in my third trimester when I realized my husband wasn’t “working late.” He was downstairs on our couch — whispering to my best friend while I slept upstairs. I didn’t confront them that night. I waited.

And at our gender-reveal party, I made sure the truth came out in front of everyone. I was in my last trimester when my world fell apart. It was supposed to be the most beautiful time of my life!

This was my first pregnancy. Sure, I was walking around like a penguin and felt permanently off-balance because my belly was the size of a parade float, but that’s just part of bringing new life into the world. My husband, Keaton, kept saying I was glowing, that I was beautiful.

I believed him… at first. After a few months of him always working late, I was starting to have doubts. I’d be buying crackers in the grocery store when I’d suddenly wonder if he still found me attractive, if he was cheating on me, if he was in trouble at work, or if my hormones were driving me insane.

Once, I started crying because the milk had expired. Keaton leaned against the counter, watching me. He was smiling like I was being adorable instead of falling apart.I was this close to throwing a piece of toast at him. “You’re glowing, Kate,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. “I’m leaking,” I snapped, wiping my face with a damp paper towel.

“I am leaking emotionally and physically. There is nothing ‘glowing’ about this.”

He laughed and stepped over to kiss my forehead. “I love you, baby.

I gotta rush. Should I grab some pickles for you on my way home?”

Before I could answer, the baby kicked. “Ooh, that was a game-winning penalty kick.” I placed a hand over my belly.

“Come here, Keaton. You need to feel this.”

“Can’t,” he said, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I’m running late again.

I have that big deadline at the office. You know how it is.”