The Mistress Stole My Womb

Seven months pregnant, stuck at home on bed rest, and drowning in anxiety, I did what anyone in my spiral would do: I doom-scrolled.

A thread on a forum caught my eye.

Should I take my husband to a labor pain simulation experience?

One reply, accompanied by a photo, stopped my thumb in its tracks.

Absolutely. My boyfriend did the simulation and swore hed never let me go through that pain. But, jokes on himIm about to become a mom anyway.

The comments were confused. Wait, if he wont let you go through labor, where is the baby coming from?

The original poster replied, the smugness practically radiating off the screen: His wife has been trying to conceive for five years. She finally got lucky. But once that baby is born, its coming home to me.

She added, Shes seven months along, sitting at home like a nesting hen, completely clueless that the baby shes carrying isnt hers.

Five years of infertility. Seven months pregnant. I knew the weight of that journeythe bruises from injections, the crushing hope.

My blood boiled. I wanted to reach through the screen and strangle this woman for her cruelty.

I kept scrolling. Then, I froze.

She had posted a 4D ultrasound photo.

My breath hitched in my throat. The air left the room.

That was my baby.

1.

I wasnt crazy. I pulled the printout from my last appointment out of the drawer, my hands trembling. I placed it next to the screen.

Every shadow, every contour. It was identical.

No wonder. I had spent hours staring at that grainy face, searching for a trace of my nose, my eyes, and finding nothing.

I clicked on her profile, desperate and terrified. I opened her most popular post.

Photo dump: Taking the boyfriend to the labor pain sim.

The boyfriends face wasnt visible, but I didnt need a face. I needed only a detail.

And there it was.

The mans left hand, clenched in pain, bore a ring-finger tattoo. It was a small, stylized script.

It was identical to Grants.

My heart didnt just break; it stopped. I clutched my heavy, swollen belly, gasping for air like a fish thrown onto the dock.

It all made sense. Whenever I mentioned childbirth classes or labor simulations, Grant would shut down, acting strangely resistant.

Because he had already done it. With her.

He knew the bone-splitting pain of a level-ten contraction.

And he had decided to let me be the vessel so his mistress wouldnt have to suffer.

The comments section was in an uproar.

Someone find the wife! You cant let her hand that baby over to a homewrecker.

Even if she gives birth, she wont give up the kid. Once a side-piece, always a side-piece.

God, I feel for that poor wife. Seven months she cant exactly walk away now.

The posterthis Ivywas replying to them, unbothered.

Let her see it. Who cares? Shes older. Its a high-risk geriatric pregnancy. If she terminates now, shell never have another kid.

Dont worry about us. My boyfriend says shes unemployed and useless. Once the baby is weaned, hes serving her papers.

She has this thing about emotional purityshes fragile. Shell probably get postpartum depression and leave on her own.

The arrogance was suffocating.

But she was right. I did have a thing about emotional purity. I couldnt stand lies.

And because my third trimester had been a nightmare of nausea and fatigue, I had quit my job as a marketing director. The loss of identity had already frayed my nerves.

Postpartum depression wasn't just a possibility; it was a roadmap they had drawn for me.

Dont be jealous, ladies, she wrote. The only reason it took five years is because I wasnt ready to settle down yet.

The fertility meds she thought she was taking? My boyfriend swapped them for birth control years ago.

I ripped open the nightstand drawer. The leftover bottles from our trying phase rattled as I grabbed them.

Could it be true? Had I been poisoning my own dreams at his command?

I called a courier service, my voice shaking as I gave instructions to run the pills to a private lab across town.

I stared at the screen, waiting for her to post again.

The thread went silent. Dinner time.

I rubbed my belly, the skin tight and itchy.

I had endured hundreds of needles for this life. My feet were so swollen they looked like rising dough.

Could I destroy this life based on an anonymous internet post?

My head buzzed with static. If I confronted Grant now, without hard proof, hed gaslight me. Hed say it was the hormones. Hed call me hysterical.

Then, a notification. A new reply.

Quit the hate, guys. My boyfriend just made a five-course meal. He stole away from work to feed me. He doesnt have time for you trolls.

She posted a picture.

The dishesbraised short ribs, garlic kalelooked exactly like Grants cooking.

I called him. Straight to voicemail.

Then, a text.

Norah, babe. Just finished overtime. I picked up your favorites. Home in 30.

I watched the clock on the wall, counting the seconds.

Thirty minutes later, the digital lock beeped.

Norah? Come eat. I got the good stuff.

I walked into the kitchen. There, on the counter, were takeout containers. Inside was cold, leftover food.

It wasn't fresh takeout. It was the leftovers from the meal hed cooked her.

The tears came then, silent and hot.

2.

Norah? Is the baby kicking? Just hang in there a little longer.

Grant knelt before me, his hands warm as he massaged my edema-swollen ankles. He looked so concerned. So loving.

Its all your favorites, he crooned. Sorry its late. Got stuck on a call on the drive home.

Sit tight. Ill heat it up.

He took the containers toward the microwave.

My phone pinged. A new comment on the thread.

He made way too much, so he packed the rest for later. I picked out these cute Hello Kitty boxes myself. Cant let my son go hungry.

I looked at the counter.

The pink, childish Hello Kitty container sat there like a neon sign.

It pierced me.

The woman in the threadthe foolish, high-risk, unemployed incubatorwas me.

All hot, Grant said, returning with a spoon. Open wide.

I looked at his gentle face. The handsome jawline I loved.

I still didnt want to believe it. How could the man who held my hair back when I vomited, who worked double shifts for our future, be this monster?

We met through a matchmaker. He was steady, earnest. It wasn't fireworks at first, but a slow burn.

When the IVF finally showed two pink lines, he had cried harder than I did.

I thought our love had moved the universe.

I was wrong. I had just walked into a trap.

I pushed the spoon away.

Grant, I said, my voice trembling. Do you think the clinic made a mistake? With the embryo transfer? I want to get checked.

The spoon froze in mid-air. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he masked it with a smile.

Norah, honey, have you been reading those trashy novels again? Its a top-tier hospital. They dont make mistakes.

But Im scared. I read that an amniocentesis can prove paternity. Grant, please. Lets just check.

He set the bowl down, the concern in his eyes hardening slightly.

Norah. Its invasive. Its risky for the baby. Trust me. There is no mistake.

He tried to talk me down, but I was immovable.

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen.

Work crisis. I have to take this.

He went into the bathroom and turned the faucet on full blast.

Five minutes later, he emerged, looking relieved.

Okay, Norah. If it will give you peace of mind, well do it. Lets book the appointment.

Really? But you just said

I love the baby, he interrupted, gripping my shoulders. But I love you more. If this anxiety is hurting you, we fix it.

I wondered what had changed his mind so quickly.

On the way to the hospital, I refreshed the thread and found the answer.

3.

The old hag suddenly wants a DNA test. Maybe she saw the post.

But Im not scared. Let her check. A little piece of paper wont stop me.

I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white.

Norah? You okay? You look pale.

As the car pulled up to the hospital entrance, I grabbed Grants sleeve.

Lets go to a different hospital. I dont want to do it here.

Grant looked at me with genuine confusion. Why? Dr. Keller has been with us since day one. Its too late to switch now.

You picked Dr. Keller, I said.

He squeezed my hand. Youre just anxious. Its the hormones. Im just trying to secure a big year-end bonus for you and the kid. Look at me. Im doing this for us.

In the past, I would have melted. Now, every word was a dagger.

Everywhere else is booked, Norah. Lets just get this over with.

The needle pierced my abdomen. I was shaking so hard the nurse had to hold me down.

Grant held my hand, smoothing the hair back from my forehead.

Patient needs to lie flat for observation. Results in 48 hours, the doctor said.

The stress must have knocked me out because I drifted into a black, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, Grant was gone.

The elevators were packed, so I waddled to the stairwell to walk down a flight.

At the landing, I saw him.

He was standing with a girlyounger, petite, glowing.

Why are you here? Its flu season, Grant scolded, but his voice was tender as he pulled a mask from his pocket and placed it over her face.

I was worried about the baby. When are the results coming?

The girl pressed herself against his chest.

Dont worry. Its handled. The results will say what we need them to say. Youre going to be a mom.

You need to go home, he added.

No, she stomped her foot playfully. I want to be with you. The old lady is asleep anyway. Im hungry. Take me to dinner?

Grant laughed, a sound I hadn't heard in years, and brushed a stray hair from her forehead.

Fine. Whatever you want.

The look in his eyesit was adoration. Pure, unfiltered love. Something he had never given me in five years of marriage.

She whispered something in his ear, and he scooped her up in his arms, carrying her down the stairs.

A sharp cramp seized my belly. I slid down the wall, sitting on the cold concrete floor.

I called Grant.

He answered, breathless.

Norah? You up? Big issue with the projectI had to rush to the office. Stay at the hospital, Ill pick you up when Im done.

Grant, my stomach hurts. Can you come back? Please?

Dont be difficult, Norah. Its almost year-end. If I lose this bonus, it impacts the family. Be a good girl.

I heard the girls voice in the background, a low whisper: Hurry up, my hands are cold.

The line went dead.

I stood up. I walked to the nurses station.

I asked for Dr. Keller.

Norah? You want to induce labor? Now?

Dr. Keller looked horrified. Do you understand what youre asking? Youre seven months along. Your uterus is fragile. If we terminate this pregnancy, you might never conceive again.

I looked into her worried eyes and nodded.

I understand. I want it out. Schedule the surgery for tomorrow morning.

She opened her mouth to argue, but I pulled up the forum post on my phone and shoved it in her face.

Her jaw dropped.

4.

This this cant be real. People make things up online, Norah. That is a human life.

Dr. Keller was my best friends neighbor. I trusted her.

Before I saw Grant in the stairwell, I would have trusted the hospital with my life. But watching him nuzzle that girl destroyed my capacity for faith.

Wait for the DNA results, she pleaded. Just wait.

She started listing everyone who handled the samples during our IVF cycle.

If this is our mistake, the hospital will take full responsibility. I put a rush on the DNA test. Well know tonight.

Grant, meanwhile, was still playing the role of the devoted husband via text.

He sent a car to pick me up.

Pulling an all-nighter, babe. Ordered you delivery. Eat well.

He hung up before I could speak.

Grant, I really need you, I whispered into the dead line. I dont care about the money.

He texted back: Stop being childish. The bonus buys the best formula for our son.

I took a deep breath. Grant, have you ever done a labor simulation?

A pause. Norah, I know youre mad Im not there, but why waste time on useless things when I could be earning for our future?

I heard the girl giggling in the background before he hung up.

I sat on the sofa in the dark.

My private investigator sent the file.

Her name was Ivy. Grants high school sweetheart. The one who got away.

She was from a broken home, not good enough for Grants parents. They forced him to break up with her after graduation.

But they never stopped seeing each other.

Ivy was a lifestyle influencer on Instagram.

Scrolling through her feed, I saw a stranger wearing my husbands face. A man who laughed, who cooked, who hiked.

A man I didnt know.

While we were on our honeymoon, she was there.

Ten days in the Maldives. She was in the room next door.

It was her first post. A photo of Grant, wearing the wedding band I bought him, kissing her on the beach at sunset.

And suddenly, the tattoo on his finger made sense.

The scribble wasnt abstract art. It was her initials.

I watched all 349 of her videos.

The latest one was filmed in a hotel room near the hospital.

Grants clothes were draped over a chair. His beltthe one I gave him for our anniversarywas hanging off the back.

Ivy commented: Boyfriends cooking skills are elite. So full.

I typed a comment.

That belt belongs to my husband.

I attached a photo of Grant wearing it from that night.

The comments section exploded.

Homewrecker!

Wait, is this the pregnant wife?

My phone rang. Dr. Keller. Her voice was grave.

Norah. I booked the operating room. Tomorrow, 9 AM.