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My Wife’s Baby Wasn’t Mine / Chapter 9: The Invisible Line
My Wife’s Baby Wasn’t Mine

My Wife’s Baby Wasn’t Mine

Author: Brett Donaldson


Chapter 9: The Invisible Line

I felt disappointed, but also found it ridiculous. Usually, I bend over backward to please her and get nothing but coldness in return. If I say a few more words, she finds me annoying. But just mentioning the suitcase, she rushed home to break the ice, afraid I’d discover her secret.

She hovered by the kitchen island, fiddling with her phone, eyes flicking to the suitcase by the stairs. There was an edge to her movements, like a deer on alert. I realized she was only home early because she was scared I’d go through her things.

I looked at Natalie. Her complexion was pale, and she looked worn out. I’d originally thought it was because the business trip was exhausting. Who would’ve thought she’d secretly had an abortion?

The dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she set her purse down—they all seemed like ordinary travel fatigue before. Now, I saw something different: the weight of a secret pressing down on her.

I took a deep breath, barely suppressing the anger in my heart. “You don’t look well after your business trip. I’m making you some chicken noodle soup to help you recover.”

The words came out gentler than I felt. I forced my voice steady, stirring the broth, hoping the rising steam would hide the flush on my cheeks.

Natalie forced a smile, awkwardly testing me: “Okay, I’ll go sort out the suitcase I brought back last night first—you didn’t touch my stuff, right?”

Her eyes searched mine, nervous, a brittle edge to her tone. She was never this direct—always avoiding conflict, always sidestepping. Now, she was practically interrogating me.

I stared into her eyes. “Didn’t touch. Didn’t you say you’d handle it yourself?”

I kept my tone flat, steady. I wanted to see if she’d flinch—if she’d look away. For a split second, I saw panic flicker across her face.

She avoided my gaze, mumbled something, and went to the bedroom.

She brushed past me, her shoulder tense, muttering about needing to unpack. I heard the bedroom door click shut, muffling the sound of her suitcase zipping open.

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