That following Sunday, we fulfilled our mandatory familial obligation and visited his mother, Dolores. Dolores operated family gatherings with the terrifying efficiency of a military dictator. Over the last nine years, she had never missed a subtle opportunity to critique my cooking, my career, or my aging, “barren” body. I walked into her sitting room clutching my glossy ultrasound printouts, playing the role of the submissive, devoted daughter-in-law.
“Well,” Dolores sniffed, adjusting her reading glasses to glance at the grainy black-and-white image. “Let’s just pray the child inherits Garrett’s fast metabolism. You know how your side of the family struggles with their weight, Meline.”
I smiled tightly. “Fingers crossed, Dolores.”
While she excused herself to use the powder room, I stood up to stretch my back. I wandered aimlessly toward her kitchen island. My eyes lazily scanned a stack of sorted mail. Poking out from beneath a utility bill was a familiar logo.
Another Bye Bye Baby receipt.
I slid it out with two fingers. It was dated exactly three months ago. A matching crib and luxury stroller travel system, totaling six hundred and forty dollars. Paid in full with a Visa card ending in 4481.
I knew that number. It was Dolores’s primary credit card.
Three months ago, I wasn’t even pregnant yet. My blood turned to glacial ice. His mother knew. She wasn’t just turning a blind eye to his infidelity; she was actively funding his double life. She was buying furniture for the grandchild she apparently preferred.
With Colleen’s ruthless assistance over the next forty-eight hours, we dug violently past the surface layer of his lies. Using a private investigator database Colleen had access to, we unearthed a fourteen-month residential apartment lease in Vineland, carrying Garrett’s forged signature. Rent was $1,150 a month, paid in cash.
But the absolute coldest, most malevolent piece of evidence I uncovered was a recurring, itemized charge of $385 pulled directly from our joint savings account, routed to Dr. Petrova’s medical clinic.
Garrett was actively paying for Tanya Burch’s prenatal healthcare using the exact money I had bled for to fund my own IVF treatments. He was harvesting my desperation to finance his fantasy.
I used the PI’s report to locate Tanya on social media. I stared at her profile picture for an hour. I didn’t want to hate her. I needed to ascertain exactly what she knew, and more importantly, what she didn’t. I opened a dummy account and typed out a single, direct message.
My name is Meline Mercer. I am legally married to Garrett. I think we urgently need to talk. Please do not panic. I am not angry at you.
I hit send. I watched the read receipt appear. I held my breath, watching the three gray dots pulse on the screen as she began to type back.
Chapter 4: The Diner in Salem
We agreed to meet at a dilapidated, neon-lit diner in Salem, New Jersey, roughly halfway between our two fractured realities. The air inside smelled heavily of burnt coffee grounds and oxidized fryer grease.
Tanya walked through the glass doors looking utterly exhausted. She was heavily pregnant, the physical toll of the third trimester written across the dark circles beneath her eyes. She spotted me in the back booth, waddled over, and slid into the cracked vinyl seat. She immediately crossed her arms defensively over her chest.
