At seven months pregnant, life felt nearly perfect. My husband Peter and I were prepping the nursery, debating baby names, and enjoying the calm before parenthood. Then one night at 11 p.m., my dad showed up at our door with an overnight bag. His face was drawn, his voice low. “I’m divorcing your mother,” he said. “I can’t stay in that house anymore.” I was stunned. My parents had been married 37 years. Divorce? It didn’t make sense. Dad barely explained—just that he was going to the lake house. But later that night, I caught him rifling through our nursery closet at 2 a.m. “Thought this was the guest room,” he mumbled, clearly lying. The next morning,
he was gone. Just a note on the counter: “I’ve gone to the lake house. Don’t call. I need space.” I called Mom in a panic—and her reaction chilled me. He told me he was at the office last night! And the lake house? We sold that a year ago!” Fearing the worst, she picked me up and we tracked him to a house on the edge of town. Her voice shaking,
