I’m 32, eight months pregnant with a married man’s child. Nazir, 42, owns a graphic design company and lives two cities away with his wife, Farah, and teenage daughter. We met while I was freelancing; he said his marriage was distant, and we connected deeply. Despite knowing better, I fell for him.
Pregnancy was a shock—doctors had told me it was unlikely. Nazir initially reacted poorly, citing his existing family, and we parted ways. But when I told him it was a boy, he softened, checking in regularly, attending ultrasounds, and even crying at one.
Farah discovered the affair through a receipt and confronted Nazir. Surprisingly, she wanted to meet me. At a coffee shop, she was calm, admitting I wasn’t the first but the first to carry his child. She offered to be my doula, which stunned me.
During labor, Farah was there, guiding me as I gave birth to Daryan. She stayed, helping with everything, becoming a sisterly figure. Two months later, she left Nazir, saying the baby freed her. Nazir’s a good dad but not my partner. Farah and I, once potential enemies, are now allies. Life’s messy, but our bond shows beauty can emerge from mistakes. What matters is what we do next.
