The Pottery Class That Shattered My Life
I thought signing up for a pottery class was just a fun, harmless way to kill time while waiting for baby number two. Nothing serious—just some artsy distraction with my best friend Ava. But that class ended up revealing something that flipped my entire world upside down. Something that connected my husband to a secret so dark, I’m still trying to catch my breath.
I’m currently pregnant with our second child, and people always say the second pregnancy hits harder emotionally. I used to think that was just another silly thing moms say—like how eating spicy food makes the baby grow more hair. Turns out, they were kind of right. Except it wasn’t the pregnancy messing with my emotions—it was my husband.
For the past few months, all I’ve wanted to do is bury myself in a mountain of blankets, snack nonstop, and watch the worst reality shows ever made. Honestly, growing a human is like running a marathon while being sleep-deprived and emotional 24/7. I had no intention of going anywhere or doing anything fun. But Ava wasn’t having it.
“You need to get out of the house,” she said one afternoon, standing in my kitchen while blending a strawberry milkshake like she owned the place.
I was flopped on the couch with my feet up, hugging a bag of kettle chips like it was my emotional support animal. “Why?” I groaned, hoping she’d take the hint and leave me alone.
Ava rolled her eyes and pointed at me with a spoon. “Because you’re turning into a hermit, Liv. We used to be fun! Remember fun?”
I mumbled, “You’re confusing fun with being eight months pregnant.”
She ignored me, of course. “I heard about this new pottery place. They host little ‘pottery parties’ where you can make or paint stuff. It’s super cute.”
I raised one eyebrow. “And we’re doing this because…?”
“Because it’ll be fun! Come on, let’s paint something for the baby’s nursery. You need a break from your own brain.”
She slid the milkshake across the counter like a peace offering.
I sighed dramatically. My ankles were already yelling at me just from thinking about it. “Fine. But you’re on snack duty that night. Whatever this baby wants, you’re getting it.”
“Deal!” she grinned like she’d just won the lottery. “Already told Malcolm he’s on Tess duty.”
That made me pause. Ava and Malcolm? They barely tolerated each other. She usually only spoke to him when necessary, and even then, she kept it short. So hearing she had already talked to him about our night out felt… strange. But I brushed it off. What was the worst that could happen?
The pottery studio was buzzing with chatter when we got there. Colorful mugs, clay bowls, and shelves of paint covered every table. About fifteen women were already there, laughing, chatting, sipping tea or wine, and choosing colors for their projects. It felt more like a party than a quiet art class.
“See? Told you it’d be fun,” Ava said, elbowing me with a grin.
“Loud, sure. Fun… we’ll see,” I replied with a small smile as we headed to a quieter table in the back.
The mood was light and happy. We got our brushes, picked out ceramic pieces—Ava chose a little elephant, I picked a plain white piggy bank—and got to work. It was actually… kind of relaxing.
Soon, the group’s conversation naturally shifted to babies and birth stories. That’s what happens when a room is full of women and at least three of them are visibly pregnant. The stories ranged from hilarious to horrifying—water breaking in a Walmart, one woman gave birth in a car, another nearly fainted when she saw her epidural needle.
Then a woman at a nearby table started talking, and everything changed.
“So I was on a date with my boyfriend last summer,” she began casually, painting a daisy on her mug. “It was the Fourth of July. We were just watching a movie at my apartment when he suddenly got this call.”
I stopped painting mid-stroke. Something about the date made my stomach twist.
“He told me his sister-in-law went into labor and that we had to leave immediately. I thought it was super weird. Like, why did he need to be there?”
I felt Ava tense beside me. My heart started pounding.
“The baby was born that night,” she said with a little smile. “A girl. I remember because he told me her name—Tess.”
I dropped my brush.
Ava leaned in, whispering urgently, “Liv… is she talking about your Tess?”
I couldn’t answer. My heart was racing so fast I could barely hear over the sound of my pulse. That woman… she was talking about my daughter’s birth night.
She kept going like she had no idea she’d just shattered my soul.
“But then,” she added with a little laugh, “Malcolm didn’t even make it to our baby’s birth. Can you believe that? He told me he had to babysit his niece—Tess—and couldn’t leave her.”
That was it. The final blow.
Ava’s face was pale as she whispered, “What are the odds?”
My stomach twisted into knots. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But I had to know.
I turned to the woman and asked, voice shaking, “Wait… your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?”
She looked up, surprised. “Yeah. Why?”
I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers and showed her my screensaver—a happy photo of Malcolm, Tess, and me at the park.
She looked at it for a second… then slowly nodded. “Yeah. That’s him. Why?”
I felt the air leave my lungs. “He’s… my husband.”
Her jaw dropped. “Wait—what? Your husband? But… he’s the father of my son.”
The room fell completely silent. All the cheerful chatter vanished. Everyone could feel it—the emotional wreckage happening right in front of them.
I felt like I was drowning.
“Ava,” I croaked, grabbing her arm. “I need water. Please.”
She ran off, and the other women stared, too stunned to say anything. I couldn’t breathe. I stood up, barely aware of my legs moving. I stumbled toward the hallway, locked myself in the bathroom, and leaned over the sink. The tears came fast. I couldn’t stop them.
Malcolm had another child. Another life. And I had no clue until tonight.
I went home and confronted him that same night.
Malcolm didn’t deny it.
He looked me in the eyes and said, “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”
Like that was supposed to make me feel better.
I was five weeks away from giving birth, and now I had to figure out how to bring this new baby into a home that had just fallen apart.
Now I sit here, eating chocolate from a box that was supposed to be part of a baby shower gift, Googling divorce lawyers while my daughter naps and my unborn child kicks against my ribs like she knows I’m in a war.
This is not the life I imagined for my kids.
A home split in two. A father who cheated. A half-sibling born from betrayal. It hurts more than I ever thought possible. But staying with him? That would hurt even worse.
I couldn’t fix what he broke.
But I could protect my kids. I could give them a life built on honesty, love, and peace.
Later that night, as Ava helped me into her car, her hand resting gently on my shoulder, I whispered, “This is it, Ava. I’m done with him.”
She looked at me, eyes full of support and quiet fury. “Good. You deserve better.”
And I do. So do my kids.
And that’s exactly what we’re going to find.
