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.