While my husband was away on a “business trip,” our old landline rang — for the first time in months. I almost didn’t answer, but the voicemail light blinked, so I hit play. A woman’s voice filled the room: frantic, desperate. “You were supposed to be here yesterday. He’s waiting for you.”

My heart sank. The voice wasn’t familiar, but the name she said was. Peter. My Peter. The man I’d shared laughter, heartbreak, and ten years of marriage with. I redialed the number, and the woman picked up — then panicked and hung up.

Suspicion led me to her identity: Olivia, a florist in a town four hours away. Her social media was full of flowers, smiles, and one little boy. Hunter. He looked oddly familiar. When I confronted her, she broke down and admitted the truth: Peter was his father. A one-night stand. A lie hidden beneath a wedding ring.

Peter didn’t know I’d found out — until I greeted him at home. I asked about the trip. He lied. Then he confessed more than I was ready to hear — including how he’d been secretly slipping birth control into my tea. I kicked him out that night. Filed for divorce. And promised Olivia she wasn’t alone. I wasn’t just reclaiming my future. I was reclaiming me.