While Pregnant, I Attended a Pottery Party That Turned into a Surreal Nightmare

For most of this pregnancy, all I’ve wanted to do is curl up in my blanket cocoon, binge-watch terrible TV, and eat every snack imaginable. Growing a human is exhausting, and I was fully prepared to ride out the next few months like that. But my best friend, Ava, had other plans.

“You need to get out of the house,” she told me one afternoon, standing in my kitchen as she whipped up a strawberry milkshake. I was sitting on the couch, feet propped up, silently praying that she would just leave me to my snacks.

“Why?” I asked, even though I knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Because you’re turning into a hermit, Liv. We used to have fun, remember?” She shot me that pleading smile as the blender roared to life.

“I think you’re confusing fun with exhaustion,” I muttered.

“I heard about this cool pottery place,” Ava continued, pretending like I hadn’t spoken at all. “You sign up for these pottery parties, and you can either make or paint something.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And we’re signing up for this because…?”

“Because it’ll be fun! Come on, let’s make something cute for the baby’s nursery. You need to get out of your head for a bit,” she said, pouring the milkshake and sliding it across the counter.

I sighed, already imagining my swollen ankles aching more than they already did. “Fine,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t drop it until I agreed. “But you owe me. Whatever this baby craves that night, you’re on snack duty.”

“Deal!” she grinned, victorious. “I already told Malcolm he’s on Tess duty for the night.”

That comment caught me off guard. Ava wasn’t exactly Malcolm’s biggest fan. She tolerated him because of me, but to hear she had already spoken to him about our plans was…weird. Still, I shrugged it off. What was the worst that could happen?

We arrived at the pottery place, and the first thing I noticed was the noise—a lively buzz of conversation that filled the air. Fifteen women, all booked for the same slot, sat around tables cluttered with paintbrushes, clay, and colorful mugs waiting to be decorated.

It was less of a serene crafting session and more of a party. Ava, of course, grinned ear to ear as she nudged me forward.

“See? Told you it’d be fun,” she said, clearly pleased with herself.

I gave her a playful eye roll. “If by fun you mean loud, then sure.”

We picked a table near the back, away from most of the chatter, and settled in with our brushes and ceramic pieces. At first, the atmosphere was exactly what Ava had promised—light, relaxed, and filled with laughter.

Conversations drifted from one group to another, and soon, we were all sharing stories. Naturally, the topic turned to pregnancy and birth—something I was already neck-deep in. The women traded experiences, and if they weren’t sharing their own stories, they talked about their sisters or friends, each one more dramatic than the last.

Then one woman, seated a few tables over, chimed in with a story that made the air feel… strange. At least for me.

“So, I was on a date with my boyfriend last summer,” she began, casually painting a delicate floral design on her mug. “We were at my flat, it was the 4th of July, and we were watching a movie when suddenly, he got this call. Apparently, his sister-in-law had gone into labor.”

I paused mid-brush stroke, something about her words tugging at my memory.

“He told me we had to leave right away because it was a ‘family thing’ and they all wanted to be there when the baby was born,” she continued with a shrug. “I thought it was weird. I mean, why did he need to go? It was almost midnight, we were both exhausted, but he insisted.”

Ava stiffened beside me. I could feel her eyes boring into the side of my head, but I couldn’t look at her. My heart had started to race.

“The baby was born that night,” the woman added, oblivious to the panic building inside me. “A little girl. I remember because he told me her name—Tess.”

The brush slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the table. Tess. Born on the 4th of July. I was the Olivia she was talking about.

Ava leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper. “Liv, is this some kind of joke?”

But the tightness in my chest told me otherwise. This wasn’t a joke. It couldn’t be.

The woman moved on to her birth story, chatting with the other women like she hadn’t just thrown a bombshell into my life. My hands felt clammy, and the paintbrush trembled as I pretended to focus on the different colors of paint in front of me. Each word she spoke felt like a nail being driven deeper into my chest.

“But Malcolm missed it! Can you imagine?” she said with a laugh, rolling her eyes. “He was there for his niece’s birth, but not our son’s! He said he was babysitting his niece, Tess, and just couldn’t leave.”

I could feel Ava tense beside me, her eyes flickering over to mine. She leaned in, barely audible as she whispered, “What are the odds?”

Every instinct screamed at me to run, to pretend this wasn’t happening. But the puzzle pieces started falling into place, each one sharper and more painful than the last. I turned to the woman, forcing myself to ask the question that I already knew the answer to. “Wait, your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?”

The woman blinked, looking surprised by my sudden interest. “Yeah, Malcolm. Why?”

I felt the world tilt on its axis. “And this is him?” I asked, my voice barely steady as I pulled out my phone. The screensaver—a photo of Malcolm, Tess, and me from our last family outing—shone back at me with mocking clarity. My fingers felt numb as I held it out for her to see.

She looked at the photo, her brow furrowing as recognition dawned in her eyes. Slowly, she nodded. “Yeah, that’s him… why?”

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice, but it came out as a broken whisper. “He’s… my husband.”

Her eyes widened as the realization hit her, too. “Wait… your husband?” She looked between me and the phone. “But… he’s the father of my son, too.”

Everything inside me shattered. I could barely hear the buzz of shocked whispers around the table as her words landed like a gut punch. My husband—my Malcolm—had not only cheated, but he had fathered a child with this woman sitting across from me, a woman who had unknowingly been sharing her betrayal in front of me for the last hour.

The once cheerful pottery party now felt suffocating, the walls pressing in on me as her words echoed over and over in my head. My heart raced, and I could barely breathe.

“Ava,” I croaked, grabbing her arm, “I need water. Please.”

She didn’t hesitate, jumping up to grab a glass, her face pale with shock.

Around the room, the other women exchanged uncomfortable glances, their cheerful chatter replaced by a heavy silence as they realized the emotional wreckage I was sitting in. It was written on their faces—the awkward sympathy, the silent horror.

I couldn’t stay there. Not another second.

“I need to go,” I muttered, not waiting for a response. I stood up on shaky legs, stumbling toward the door. Tears streamed down my face as I escaped into the hallway and locked myself in the bathroom. I leaned over the sink, gripping it tight to steady myself as the full weight of what I had just learned crashed over me.

My husband had another life. Another child. And I had no idea until tonight.

I decided to confront Malcolm. I couldn’t let this fester, mainly because I was due in five weeks. Before bringing my baby into this mess, I needed to know how to continue forward.

Malcolm reluctantly admitted to his affair and the child he had fathered, and our marriage shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

Now, I’m eating chocolate and researching divorce lawyers.

This wasn’t the life I had imagined for my children—a home fractured by betrayal. But how could I stay with a man who almost missed our daughter’s birth because he was with another woman? How could I live with someone who fathered a child behind my back?

It was a bitter truth. My children, innocent in all of this, now had a half-sibling born from their father’s affair. The weight of that reality pressed down on me, but I knew what I had to do.

I couldn’t fix what was broken, but I could create a new life—one filled with love, trust, and stability for my kids. They deserved that much.

As Ava helped me to the car, I said softly, “This is it, Ava, I’m done with him.”

And I meant it.

What would you do in this situation?

Here’s another story for you: Anne can’t wait to find out if her baby is a boy or a girl. Surrounded by close friends and family, she pops the balloon her husband offers her, only to find a deeply disturbing message hidden inside.

Read the full story here.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided as “is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.