Seven Months Pregnant, I Joined a Pottery Party. I Didn’t Know I Was Walking Into a Nightmare.

I’m pregnant with my second baby, and from the moment I told people, everyone started warning me that this time would be different.

“You’ll be more emotional,” my mom said, giving me that patient, almost smug smile mothers use when they’re sure life is about to prove them right.

I rolled my eyes at her.

I’d done this before. I knew the cravings, the swollen ankles, the random tears over dog food commercials. I could handle it.

And to be fair, she wasn’t completely wrong.

I have been more emotional.

Just not because of the baby.

The real storm didn’t come from my hormones.

It came from my husband.

During this pregnancy, I’ve felt tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. My body feels heavier, slower. Some days, all I want is to sink into the couch, order greasy takeout, and eat whatever snack the baby decides is necessary that hour. Pickles and ice cream? Fine. Spicy noodles at 10 a.m.? Also fine.

Going out feels like a performance. Smiling feels like work.

So I’ve been hiding a little. Canceling plans. Ignoring group chats.

But Ava wasn’t going to let that slide.

Ava has been my best friend since college. She’s loud in the best way, loyal to the core, and has appointed herself my official pregnancy cheerleader.

One afternoon, I was at her place with my feet propped up on her coffee table. They were swollen and aching, and I was trying to convince myself that compression socks were a gift from heaven.

Ava stood in the kitchen blending me a strawberry smoothie like she was running a wellness retreat.

“You need to get out of the house,” she called over the blender noise.

“I leave the house,” I replied weakly.

“To go to doctor appointments and the grocery store,” she shot back. “That doesn’t count.”

She walked over and handed me the smoothie. “I found this adorable pottery studio. They do these little pottery parties. You sign up, paint something cute, hang out. Wine, snacks, music.”

“We paint pots?” I asked flatly.

“Maybe pots,” she said. “Or bowls. Or baby stuff. They have nursery decorations. Liv, come on. We can make something for the baby’s room.”

I imagined myself sitting on a tiny stool, pretending to be creative while strangers talked about their perfect lives.

“I can think of a hundred other things I’d rather do,” I muttered.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Fine. But if you come, I’ll buy whatever the baby wants tonight.”

I perked up slightly. “Anything?”

“Within reason.”

“Define reason.”

She laughed. “Yes, you can have fries and a milkshake.”

I sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if this is awful, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” she said. Then, almost casually, she added, “I already told Malcolm to stay home with Tess.”

That made me look up.

Ava had never been Malcolm’s biggest fan. She’d always been polite, but I could tell she didn’t fully trust him. The fact that she’d coordinated with him ahead of time meant she’d really planned this.

“You talked to him?” I asked.

“Relax,” she said. “I texted him. He said it was fine. He’ll handle bedtime.”

I nodded slowly. Tess was three now. Smart, funny, stubborn like me. She adored her dad.

Everything felt normal.

At least, it did then.

The pottery studio was bright and warm when we walked in. Shelves lined the walls, covered in half-painted mugs and bowls. Fairy lights were strung across the ceiling. Music played softly in the background.

There were about fifteen women there, maybe more. Some came in pairs, others in small groups. A few were pregnant too. It felt easy. Safe.

We found seats at a long wooden table and picked out our pieces. I chose a small ceramic moon meant for a nursery wall. Ava grabbed a matching star.

“Look at us,” she said. “Crafty moms.”

I snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

As the evening went on, the wine flowed—well, for everyone but me—and conversations started blending together. Women shared stories about their kids, their jobs, their partners.

Eventually, the topic drifted to birth stories.

It always does when you put a group of women in a room long enough.

One woman talked about her emergency C-section. Another described a dramatic midnight rush to the hospital. Laughter and gasps bounced across the table.

Then a brunette across from me started talking.

She had nervous energy. She smiled too wide, like she was trying to convince herself she found her story funny.

“My boyfriend left me on the Fourth of July once,” she said. “Like, actually left. In the middle of a movie.”

A few women groaned in sympathy.

“Why?” someone asked.

“He got a call,” she continued. “His sister-in-law was in labor. Olivia. The whole family was rushing to the hospital. It was almost midnight. He said he had to go.”

My heart skipped.

Tess was born on July 4th.

And I am Olivia.

I felt Ava’s knee press against mine under the table.

Coincidence, I told myself.

It had to be.

There are lots of Olivias. Lots of babies born on the Fourth of July.

The brunette kept talking.

“Six months later,” she said, her smile tightening, “I went into labor myself. And guess what? Malcolm missed it.”

The room chuckled awkwardly.

“He said he couldn’t leave because he was babysitting his niece. Tess.”

The paintbrush slipped in my fingers.

Ava went still beside me.

My ears started ringing.

“What are the odds?” Ava whispered.

My voice didn’t sound like mine when I spoke. “Your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?”

The brunette nodded slowly.

I swallowed. My hands were shaking as I reached for my phone. I unlocked it and pulled up my wallpaper—a photo of Malcolm holding Tess in one arm, me beside him, my small pregnant bump just starting to show.

I turned the phone toward her.

“This Malcolm?” I asked.

Her face drained of color.

She leaned forward, squinting at the screen. Confusion flickered across her features. Then recognition.

“That’s… your husband?” she asked.

I nodded.

She stared at me like the air had been knocked out of her.

Then she said the words that split my life in two.

“He’s my son’s father too.”

The room tilted.

The laughter around us faded into a distant hum. The fairy lights overhead suddenly felt too bright. The pottery studio, which had seemed warm and welcoming minutes earlier, now felt small and suffocating.

Not only had my husband cheated.

He had a child with her.

I felt like I might faint.

“Water,” I whispered.

Ava was on her feet instantly, grabbing a cup and rushing toward the sink.

The other women sat frozen, eyes darting between us.

I barely remember standing up. I just know I ended up in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles turned white.

I stared at my reflection.

My face looked pale. My eyes wide and glassy. My stomach tightened, but not from the baby kicking.

Five weeks.

I was due in five weeks.

I didn’t have time for my world to fall apart.

Ava came in and closed the door behind her. “Liv,” she said softly.

I shook my head. “No. No, this isn’t real.”

But it was.

The timeline fit too perfectly.

The Fourth of July. The missed labor. Tess.

I felt stupid. Blind. Angry. Sick.

After a few minutes, I walked back out.

The brunette—her name was Claire, I later learned—looked just as shaken as I felt. She wasn’t smirking. She wasn’t triumphant. She looked betrayed too.

“I didn’t know he was married,” she said quickly. “He told me they were separated.”

Of course he did.

“How old is your son?” I asked.

“Two and a half,” she said quietly.

Close to Tess’s age.

The math made my head spin.

That night, I drove home in silence. Ava offered to come with me, but I told her no. I needed to face him alone.

Malcolm was in the living room when I walked in. Tess was asleep upstairs.

He smiled when he saw me. “How was pottery night?”

I didn’t answer.

I stood there, still holding my purse, and looked at him.

“How long?” I asked.

His smile faded. “What?”

“How long have you been seeing Claire?”

The color drained from his face.

There was no dramatic denial. No loud argument. Just a long, heavy silence.

Then he sat down.

And he told me everything.

Yes, there had been an affair.

Yes, it overlapped with my pregnancy.

Yes, there was a child.

He said he’d tried to “handle it.” That he’d ended things. That he was paying support. That he didn’t want to “hurt me.”

Each sentence felt like a crack spreading across something I’d believed was solid.

“You almost missed Tess’s birth,” I said, my voice shaking. “You left her birth to be with her.”

“I came back,” he said weakly.

“You came back because she was already in labor,” I snapped.

I thought about that night. How scared I’d been. How I’d squeezed his hand in the hospital bed. How grateful I’d felt that he was there.

All the while, he had been living another life.

“How could you do this?” I asked.

He didn’t have an answer that mattered.

By morning, the marriage I thought I had was in pieces too small to glue back together.

Now I spend my days researching divorce lawyers between bites of chocolate and prenatal vitamins.

Tess plays on the floor while I sit at the kitchen table, scrolling through websites about custody agreements and child support laws.

This isn’t the family I pictured for my children.

I never imagined they would grow up in separate homes. I never imagined explaining to them that they have a half-brother born from betrayal.

But I also never imagined staying with a man who could hold my hand through one pregnancy while building a secret life behind my back.

He nearly missed our daughter’s birth because he was with someone else.

That’s not something I can forgive.

Claire and I have spoken once since that night. Not as enemies. Just two women trying to understand the damage left behind.

Her son didn’t choose this.

Tess didn’t choose this.

The baby inside me didn’t choose this.

None of the kids did.

And I refuse to let Malcolm’s deception define the kind of home they grow up in.

It won’t be the picture-perfect family I once imagined. It won’t be simple.

But it will be honest.

There won’t be secrets.

There won’t be half-truths whispered in the dark.

I’m terrified. I won’t pretend I’m not. The idea of starting over with two small children makes my chest tighten.

But staying would hurt more.

From here on out, my children will grow up seeing strength instead of silence. Truth instead of lies.

It’s not the future I planned.

But it’s real.

And right now, that’s enough.