When I was seven months pregnant, the ground beneath my life split open.

That was the day I learned my husband was having an affair. The discovery didn’t just hurt — it felt physical. Like someone had struck me in the chest and stolen the air from my lungs.

I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, phone still in my hand, rereading messages I wished I had never seen. My baby kicked inside me, unaware that everything outside was collapsing.