At seven months pregnant, everything felt almost perfect. My husband, Peter, and I were putting the finishing touches on the nursery, debating baby names, and savoring the quiet before our little one arrived.
Then, around 11 p.m., my dad appeared at our door with an overnight bag. His face looked strained, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m divorcing your mother,” he said. “I can’t stay in that house anymore.”
I was stunned. My parents had been married for 37 years—divorce seemed impossible. He offered no explanation, only that he was heading to the lake house.
Later that night, I caught him rummaging through the nursery closet at 2 a.m.
“Thought this was the guest room,” he muttered, clearly lying.