Andrew stands in front of me, a broken man. Hurt and lied to by the woman who loves him. By me. I can't look him in the eye, shame bringing me in on myself. His clothes are creased and splotched with dirt, hair dishevelled, face unshaven. It's clear he hasn't been looking after himself since I last saw him. I did this to him. I created a shell of a man. Anger fills me. Anger at myself. At Michael. At life. Andrew is a good man, a kind man. He doesn't deserve the pain I'm inflicting on him.

Without warning, his calloused hands hold my stomach, tenderly stroking the life within. Neither of us have spoken for lack of wanting the awkwardness to spread further. But I know we have to. We have a lot to discuss. If this child is Andrew's I have no doubt that he will want to be involved, to read nightly bedtime stories and attend school events. I have no doubt he will want to shower this child with all the love I know he didn't receive himself growing up. But if this child is Andrew's, what does that mean for Michael? Michael who has excitedly been scouring the internet for the perfect moses basket, who has been making lists of names, decorating the spare room in anticipation of its new occupant? No matter the outcome, one of these men will be left heartbroken and I will be the cause.

I look up at Andrew, slowly moving his hand away from me. In spite of the absence and space between us lately, my heart still soars seeing him. I still feel like a giddy schoolgirl dancing with her crush at prom. He looks back at me and sighs before sitting on the seat by my desk. My office seemed the only safe place to have this conversation. The most appropriate place. The place that had set this whole train in motion. I look at the mahogany desk, each pattern in the wood a reminder of our bodies atop it. Naked, sweating, euphoric and so completely in the moment. Oblivious and uncaring of the damage we were doing to my marriage. The filing cabinet that once had provided cool relief against the heat radiating between us now stands in solitary disgust. Everything in this room reminds me of him. Of our time together. Our love for one another. Of the sense of safety I feel when I'm with him. Of the many hours we have spent together, not simply having sex, but talking. Really talking. About our dreams, our fears, funny memories. Anything and everything crammed into measly time slots whenever we could arrange them. There isn't a single crevice in this office that hasn't been touched by our presence. It's our space. Sure we have hotel rooms, cars and other places to meet and spend time together, but nothing feels as sentimental as here.

"I didn't want to hide this from you," I say, finally breaking the silence. I step toward him, perching myself on his knee, curling into him like a lost child. He strokes my hair, taking a deep breath as he does so. And it's true. I really didn't want to keep this child a secret from him. Didn't want to lie to him or hurt him. If I could take all the deceit back and save him from the misery Andrew has suffered these last few months I would in a heartbeat. And so I tell him about the scans, about the baby that could be sharing his DNA. The cravings and sickness, the weird dreams that pull me from my sleep all hours of the night. And as I tell him, he smiles. He laughs. He asks questions and offers words of comfort. I begin to forget about Michael, forget about the pain he used to inflict, the unhappy moments in our marriage. I focus entirely on the here and now, on me and Andrew. I let myself imagine once more a life where we could be together, where I wouldn't be trapped and afraid. Where I could come and go as I pleased without the fear of repercussions and accusations. Where I wouldn't need to sneak around with someone just to feel safe and truly loved. I would be content and happy. With a child, a man I loved that adored me back just as much if not more. Maybe a dog too. And we'd spend precious moments on family outings, holidays. Glorious moments alone together under our bedsheets, separated from the world, with only ourselves and our child to think of. A state of pure bliss. And just as quick as the dream started, it ends. Reality pings my phone and the image of Andrew carrying our child to bed dissipates into nothingness. 'I'm on my way home. Make sure you're there. You better not have gone out.' 

Andrew looks from my phone to me and shakes his head.

"You can't keep doing this Amelia. He's not good for you, you know that as well as I do. But I can't keep being a play thing when you need it – I know you love me you don't need to say that – but it hurts. It really hurts to see you unhappy with him, with bruises and unwilling to do anything about it. I'll be there for anything you need for the baby, but I'm done. I can't do this anymore,"

My heart drops as he stands, placing me beside the chair we had sat on, before he leaves me office. He doesn't look back. Not even for a second.