That day, sky was gray and drizzling. Hanna, eight months pregnant, carefully put on her hat and headed to the market.

Tom, her husband, had left early for what he said was an urgent meeting. She felt a little sad—so close to giving birth, yet she still had to carry home diapers, milk, and tiny clothes alone.

The market was packed. Hanna moved slowly, balancing her swollen belly. After picking up a few things for the baby, she was about to leave when she heard a voice. Familiar. Too familiar.

Turning her head, she froze.

It was Tom—holding the hand of a young woman in high heels, smiling, flirting, carrying her shopping bag.

“What do you want to eat? I’ll buy it all for you,” he said.

“I don’t eat much, I’m already fat.”

“Fat is just a word. I still love you.”

Hanna’s heart went numb. She didn’t cry, didn’t shout.

From just a few steps away, she could see everything: her husband tenderly caring for another woman while his pregnant wife struggled through the market alone.

Her hand trembled as she took out her phone. She typed one line:

“I just saw you at the market. I’m exhausted, so I took a taxi home. And you… keep playing your role.”

Then she shut her phone off.

Moments later, Tom’s face turned pale as he read the message. He dropped the girl’s hand and ran, stammering,

“Hanna… she’s here…” But she was gone—walking slowly, painfully, but with dry eyes and an empty heart.

Back home, Hanna quietly laid out the baby items on the kitchen table: a tiny coat, a pair of socks, powder, milk, diapers. Each item was a knife to the chest. She remembered the lonely nights, the hospital visits alone, the coldness in his eyes. It all made sense now.