While my husband was away on a “business trip,” the old landline phone rang — the one we hadn’t used in forever. I almost didn’t answer. But then the voicemail light blinked.
A woman’s voice. Desperate. Nervous. And one sentence that made my heart drop into my stomach.
That moment changed my life.
You know how every house has that one useless thing nobody touches? For us, it was the landline. We always laughed about it. Peter and I used to say, “If that phone rings, it’s either a scammer or someone calling from the past.”
We used to play along, too. Sometimes we’d answer with silly voices, just to entertain ourselves. That was us. We joked. We laughed. We were each other’s best friend.
Peter and I met doing amateur comedy in college. Our whole marriage was filled with playful teasing and inside jokes. I truly thought I married the love of my life.
Sure, Peter could be a bit immature — like a man who never fully grew up — but I balanced that out. I took care of things. I didn’t mind, really. Everything felt right. Well, almost everything.
We couldn’t get pregnant.
We tried for years. Doctors, tests, different diets, everything. But every result came back the same — we were both “perfectly healthy.” Still, nothing happened.
After a while, I started thinking something was wrong with me. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a mom. Maybe I didn’t deserve it.
But Peter never gave up. “It’ll happen. Just wait. Don’t stress, babe,” he’d always say with that hopeful smile.
Then came that last test.
Negative again.
But this time, Peter wasn’t with me. He was on a business trip. Which was weird — travel wasn’t part of his job at all. When I asked, he just said, “New policy. Gotta travel more now.”
Bad timing. I needed him, but I was alone. So I did what many women would do — grabbed a tub of ice cream, picked a cheesy rom-com from the ’90s, and tried to drown the pain in melted chocolate and Meg Ryan’s voice.
That’s when the landline rang.
Annoyed, I snatched it up and growled, “Go to hell!” before slamming it back down. I wasn’t in the mood.
Then I saw the voicemail light blinking.
I pressed the button.
“Peter, hi. I know you told me not to call your house, but I haven’t been able to reach you. You were supposed to be here yesterday, and now you’re just ignoring me. He’s waiting for you.”
I froze. My blood turned to ice.
I hit redial, heart pounding.
“Peter? Is that you? Why didn’t you come?” the same woman answered, her voice full of worry.
“Who are you?” I asked, sharp and cold.
“Oh… I’m sorry,” she stammered. Then she hung up.
I called again. No answer.
If she had sounded normal, maybe I’d believe it was work-related. But something about her voice… the panic, the way she hung up… No. I had to know the truth.
I grabbed a pen, jotted down the number, and opened my laptop. Let’s be honest — every woman has a bit of FBI inside her. We can find anything if we really want to.
Five minutes later, I had her name: Olivia.
Her social media showed photos of her and a little boy — about three years old — named Hunter.
Peter wasn’t in any of the pictures. Olivia didn’t look familiar. But something about Hunter… I couldn’t explain it. He looked like someone I knew. Someone I lived with.
I found out Olivia was a florist in a small town four hours away. I didn’t bother calling again. I wanted answers — face to face.
But first, I needed to confirm one thing.
I called Peter’s boss and casually asked about the “business trip.”
His response? “What trip?”
That was it. I packed a bag and hit the road.
When I arrived at the flower shop, Olivia was just locking up. I waited, watching her. Once she turned to leave, I walked up.
“Olivia? Hi. You called my house. I need to know who you are.”
Her face turned ghost-white. “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong person,” she said quickly, trying to walk away.
“Please,” I said, desperate now. “Woman to woman — how would you feel if this happened to you?”
She stopped. Turned around. Her eyes were full of regret.
“I don’t want drama. I have a child. I already regret dragging him into this,” she whispered.
“No drama. Just the truth,” I told her.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Come with me.”
We drove to her house. Inside, a woman — the nanny — was with Hunter. Olivia led me to the kitchen, shut the door, and leaned against the counter.
“I don’t even know how to start,” she said quietly. “You’re his wife, and I—”
“Just say it,” I told her. “After years of negative pregnancy tests, I’ve survived worse.”
She winced. “Peter is Hunter’s father.”
I blinked. “What?”
“But we never dated. It was just one night. I only wanted Hunter to know who his dad is,” she said quickly.
“You got pregnant from one night?” I asked.
“I didn’t know he was married. He took off his ring. Only told me the truth when I said I was pregnant,” she admitted.
“He abandoned you? His own son?” I asked, my voice shaking with anger.
“I tried to arrange a meeting. He kept making excuses. Then said he was ready, but didn’t show. I’ve already told Hunter about him, and I hate myself for it.”
I stood there, silent for a moment, then exploded. “What the hell is wrong with him?!”
“I never asked for money. I just wanted my son to have a dad,” she said, her eyes welling with tears.
“Well, now he’s going to pay. And not just with money — with everything. He doesn’t get to walk away from this,” I told her.
“I really don’t want fights,” she whispered.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I said, grabbing her hand. “We’ll fix this. Together.”
Just then, Hunter walked in.
“Daddy’s not coming?” he asked, his voice so small, so innocent.
Olivia froze.
I knelt beside him. “No, sweetie. But guess what? He’s going to buy you so many toys that you’ll need a new house just to store them all!”
Hunter’s eyes lit up. “Yay!” he shouted and ran out.
Olivia looked at me, stunned. “Thank you.”
I smiled. “We’re not letting that man run from this.”
Three days later, Peter came home.
I waited in the bedroom. Calm. Controlled. Ready.
“How was the trip?” I asked as he walked in.
“Great,” he said with a smile.
“No problems? Nothing unexpected?”
“Everything went according to plan,” he said with a shrug.
“Oh really?” I stood up. “So tell me, how come we’ve been trying for a baby for years — and some random woman got pregnant after one night with you?!”
His eyes went wide. “What? How do you—?”
“I’ve seen him. Your son. The one you abandoned.”
Peter stumbled back. “I can explain—”
“Will you start with the cheating? Or the lying? Or maybe how you walked out on your own child?”
“It wasn’t like that! I didn’t cheat that much! Just a few times!” he shouted.
“There were others?!”
He hesitated.
“You’re disgusting,” I spat.
“What was I supposed to do? Bring the kid home?!”
“Yes!” I screamed. “Take responsibility! Be a man! Be a father! Be a husband!”
And then he said the one thing that shattered me.
“I don’t even want kids! If I did, I wouldn’t have been slipping birth control into your tea!”
I stopped breathing.
“You did what?” I whispered.
“You were obsessed! I didn’t know what else to do,” he muttered.
I stepped back. “You watched me cry, break down, blame myself for years. And the whole time — it was you?”
“I didn’t want to lose you,” he said weakly.
“You didn’t want to lose me, so you poisoned me, cheated on me, and laughed behind my back? I don’t even know who you are.”
“We can fix this, Vanessa!”
“No, Peter. It’s over. I’ve already filed for divorce. Olivia’s filing for child support. You’re going to pay for everything. Your ‘perfect’ life? It’s gone.”
“You can’t do this to me!” he screamed.
“You did it to yourself,” I snapped. “Now get out — or I’ll call the cops.”
“I’m still your husband!” he yelled.
I smiled coldly. “I have a wild imagination. If you’re not gone in sixty seconds, I’ll give them a story they’ll never forget.”
Peter glared at me. Furious. But finally, he turned around and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
I collapsed onto the bed, breathing like I hadn’t in years. It was over.
Peter was gone.
And I — I was finally free. I had something better than him now. A purpose. A mission.
I was going to show up. For Olivia. For Hunter. For myself.
