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