You asked her to continue the prescription. She reminded you that if you were still trying to conceive, you should stop taking them. You told her you'd think about it, but you didn't stop, did you? Rachel was openly crying now, tears streaming down her face, but I felt nothing. No sympathy, no regret, just the cold satisfaction of watching the last lie crumble.
This is an invoice from a pharmacy dated two weeks ago while you were in the Bahamas with Marcus. You had your prescription refilled and shipped to his apartment, not ours, his. Because you didn't want me to see it to ask questions about why you were still taking pills that were supposed to help us get pregnant but were actually preventing it. James, please. For a year, Rachel, for an entire year, I thought we were trying to have a baby.
I went to fertility appointments. I changed my diet, stopped drinking, took vitamins, did everything the doctor suggested to improve our chances. I held you while you cried about negative pregnancy tests. I reassured you that it would happen, that we just needed to be patient. And the entire time, the entire time you were taking pills specifically designed to make sure it never happened.
She was sobbing now, her whole body shaking. I was going to stop. I was planning to stop. I just You just what? Needed to make sure you didn't accidentally get pregnant by your husband while you were sleeping with someone else.
The words came out like acid. Or were you hoping to get pregnant by Marcus and pass it off as mine? Is that what the Bahamas trip was about? A twoe window to conceive with him while I was here taking fertility supplements like an idiot? No.
God, no. James, it wasn't like that. Then what was it like? Explain to me why you would let me believe we were struggling with infertility when you were actively preventing conception. Explain why you would put me through the emotional torture of thinking I might be the problem.
That maybe we'd never have the family we both said we wanted. Explain why you would lie about something so fundamental, so intimate. So, I had to stop, had to breathe, had to resist the urge to scream. Explain it to me, Rachel. She was gulping air between sobs, trying to form words.
I wasn't ready. I thought I was when we first started talking about it. But then when it became real, when it became something that was actually going to happen, I panicked. I realized I didn't want a baby. Not yet.
Maybe not ever. But I knew you wanted one. And I didn't know how to tell you that I'd changed my mind. So instead of talking to me, instead of having an honest conversation about our future, you just lied. You let me think we had fertility problems.
You went to doctor's appointments and nodded along while they discussed treatments, all while taking pills that made those treatments impossible. I know how it sounds. It sounds like you're a liar, Rachel. Not just about the affair. Not just about Marcus, but about everything.
Our entire marriage, our plans, our future. All of it was built on lies you told because you were too much of a coward to be honest about what you actually wanted. She wiped her face with shaking hands, leaving mascara streaks across her cheeks. What do you want me to say? I'm sorry I've said that.
I've apologized for everything. I want you to tell me the truth for once, the actual complete truth. I leaned forward. Did you ever want children with me? The silence stretched between us like a chasm.
I don't know, she finally whispered. I thought I did. When we got married, when we were young and everything felt possible. Yes, I wanted kids. I wanted the whole thing to house, family, white picket fence.
But somewhere along the way, I changed. I realized I liked our life the way it was. Liked having freedom and flexibility and not being tied down. And I didn't know how to tell you that without without me leaving you. " She nodded miserably. "So, you lied.
You strung me along for years. Let me believe we were building towards something that you had no intention of actually doing. And when that lie got too complicated, when I started pushing for fertility treatments, you started an affair. " Because it's easier to blow everything up than to have a difficult conversation. It wasn't calculated like that. It wasn't a plan.
Of course, it was a plan. Maybe not consciously. Maybe not sitting down with a checklist, but your actions reveal intent, Rachel. You kept taking birth control while claiming to want a baby. That's deception.
You pursued Marcus while acting like a devoted wife. That's betrayal. You booked a vacation with your lover using money we saved for our child's future. That's theft. Every single choice you made was designed to serve your desires while hiding them from me.
I pulled another document from the envelope, one I'd been saving for this exact moment. This is a text message exchange between you and your sister from last April. You told her you weren't sure you wanted kids anymore. She asked if you'd talk to me about it. You said no, that you'd deal with it later.
And when she suggested you should be honest with me, you said, "I read directly from the screenshot, you said James would freak out. He's wanted kids since before we got married. It's easier to just keep pretending and figure it out eventually. " Rachel stared at the message like she was seeing a ghost. You hacked my phone. I recovered deleted messages from our shared cloud backup, which you would know if you'd bothered to read the privacy settings.
But that's not the point. The point is that you knew. You knew for at least 6 months, probably longer, that you didn't want what I wanted. And instead of being honest, instead of giving me the chance to decide if I wanted to stay in a marriage that would never include children, you just kept lying. Because I love you, she was shouting now, desperate, because I didn't want to lose you.