Eight months after the divorce, my phone buzzed with his name. “Come to my wedding,” he said, smug as ever. “She’s pregnant—unlike you.” I froze, fingers tightening around the hospital sheet.

sweeping processional. The congregation turned, expecting the bride, but instead, their eyes fell on me.

A collective, stifled gasp rippled through the pews. I walked down the aisle with slow, deliberate steps, the heels of my shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. I could see Julian’s mother, Eleanor, sitting in the front row, her face continue reading …