“I’m pregnant,” I said brightly to my husband. “So am I,” replied my sister, stepping out of our bedroom…
The words had left my lips in a breathless rush—*I’m pregnant*—and a smile bloomed unbidden across my face.
Christopher, standing by the window, went still. He didn’t turn, but in the reflection of the glass, I saw his shoulders tense.
I had expected embraces, joyful exclamations—anything but this frozen, unnatural silence.
“Me too,” came Lillian’s quiet voice.
My sister emerged from *our* bedroom, wearing Christopher’s shirt—the same one he slept in, my favourite. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so casual, so *familiar*, that for a moment, the room darkened at the edges.
Fragments of memory flickered like faulty film—Christopher working late, *again*, while Lillian dropped by “just to chat,” her eyes darting to her phone. The way they laughed at jokes only they understood, leaving me standing there, an outsider in my own life.
“Did you still have the key, Lil?” he’d asked once, before we left for holiday. “Could you water the plants? There’s no one else I trust.”
And I had smiled, stupidly pleased at how close we all were.
“What?” I asked, though I’d heard perfectly. My voice sounded wooden, foreign.
“Annie, I can explain,” Christopher finally turned. His face was bloodless. “This isn’t what you think. It’s… a mistake.”
Lillian met my gaze straight on. No guilt—just exhaustion and something stubborn, almost defiant.
“It’s *not* a mistake,” she said flatly, still staring at him. “Stop lying. At least now.”
He shot her a furious look. *”Shut up!”*
I looked between them—the man I’d built a future with for five years, and the sister who’d shared my childhood secrets. They stood barely two feet away, yet it felt like a chasm had opened, swallowing every *us* we’d ever been—our plans, our tenderness, the child I’d thought was ours alone.
“A mistake,” I repeated, twisting the word into something bitter. “So you’ll *both* have one? Or just one each?”
Christopher stepped toward me, hands outstretched. “Annie, love, let’s talk. Just—not now. Lil, *leave*.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said coolly, arms crossed. “We’re having a baby. And I won’t let you pretend I don’t exist *again*.”
I backed away until the hallway wall pressed cold against my spine.
“Get out,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Get out. Both of you.”
They didn’t move. My words, which had once carried weight, were now just empty noise.
“Annie, don’t be rash,” Christopher began in that placating tone I *hated*—the one he used when he wanted me to *be reasonable*. “You’re a smart woman. We’re adults. Yes, I’ve messed up. But now we have to think about the children. *Our* children.”
He stressed the last word, trying to stitch us back together with sheer will.
“Which *‘our’* children?” I asked, poison-sweet. “The one raised by a single mother, or the one born to his father’s mistress?”
Lillian flinched.
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed. “You don’t know anything.”
“Don’t I?” The cold fury was rising, eclipsing the shock. “Enlighten me. What *should* I know? That you slept with my husband in *my* bed? Was that not enough?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Her voice hardened. “We *love* each other. This isn’t just some affair.”
Christopher grabbed his head. “Lil, I *told* you—”
“And I’m *done* hiding!” she shouted. “Done being your dirty secret, your *problem* to fix! Annie, you’ve *always* had everything. The perfect husband, the perfect home. And me? I was just *‘Annie’s sister.’*”
Her words dripped with old resentment, and for a second, I faltered. She wasn’t apologizing—she was *accusing*.
I remembered our mother’s offhand praise: *”Annie’s the clever one, Lil’s the pretty one. Each to their own.”* Lillian had never made peace with her *own*.
“So you took mine?” I asked softly.
“I took what was *unclaimed*,” she snapped. “He wasn’t happy with you. You just refused to see it.”
I looked at Christopher. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. And I realized she was right—not about love, but about him letting her believe it, feeding her grievances, binding them together in his weakness and her envy.
“Fine,” I said. They both tensed at my calm. “What’s the proposal, then? All three of us? Or shifts?”
Christopher’s head jerked up. “Stop it. This isn’t *helping*. I think… we should live apart for now. I’ll rent Lil a flat. Support you both. We need time to—”
He spoke like he was negotiating a merger. Asset allocation. Risk management.
“So you want me to sit here, pregnant, while you *decide* which of your pregnant women to choose?” I laughed—a jagged, broken sound.
“Annie, you’re overcomplicating this.”
“No, Christopher. *You* oversimplified it. Reduced it to instinct. Get out. Take her with you. Collect your things when I’m not here.”
I pulled out my phone. “Hello, security? There are trespassers in my flat. Yes, refusing to leave.”
Lillian glared hatred. Christopher looked *shocked*. He’d expected *Annie the agreeable*, who’d forgive anything. But that girl had just died.
The call was a bluff—our building had no security, just a drowsy concierge. But they didn’t know that. The word *security* sobered Christopher instantly.
“You *bitch*,” he rasped, yanking Lillian’s arm. “Kicking out a pregnant woman. Your own *sister*.”
“I’m evicting my husband’s mistress,” I corrected, holding his gaze. “You’re just the coward who let her in.”
When the door clicked shut, I slid down the wall, but no tears came. Just hollow silence and the ringing high of adrenaline.
The next day, hell began.
First, my boss called. “Annie, hi. Listen, Christopher phoned… He’s worried. Says you’re… *emotionally unstable* from the pregnancy.”
Ice slid down my spine.
“What *else* did he say?”
“Asked if we could give you leave. Said you might not be… thinking clearly.”
Then I understood. He wasn’t just leaving—he was dismantling me, painting me as hysterical. Striking where it hurt most: my career, my independence.
By noon, a courier delivered a thick envelope from his solicitor. Pages of legalese boiled down to this: he was suing for the flat, claiming it was bought with *his* money pre-marriage, my contributions “negligible.” The final page demanded a *psychiatric evaluation*—to determine if I was *fit* to mother our child.
*This* was rock bottom. He wanted to take *everything*—not just the home, but the baby. Weaponizing my pregnancy against me.
Something inside me *snapped*. The thread connecting me to the old Annie—soft, forgiving, *foolish*—finally broke.
He expected me to collapse, to beg. But he’d forgotten who stayed up nights proofreading his contracts, who kept his *creative* bookkeeping in a notebook when he couldn’t afford an accountant. I’d been his shadow, his accomplice. And he’d handed me the knife himself.
I opened the safe we’d bought for *important documents*—typed the code only we knew. Beneath the deeds lay a slim folder he’d asked me to *“just keep”* years ago. *”Insurance, Annie,”* he’d said. *”You’re the only one I trust.”*
I dialed an old friend, Simon, in financial crimes.
“Hi. I’ve got a story about a *very* successful businessman.”
What followed was slow ruin.
Six months later, HMRC froze his accounts. He called—I didn’t answer. Lillian texted: *”He left me. No money. Help.”* I deleted it.
His downfall was methodical. Partners backed out; no one would buy his business. Once, he called when his card was declined at a restaurant.
“*What have you done?!*” he screamed. “You’re *destroying* me!”
“No, Christopher,” I said, sorting baby clothes. “I just turned on the light. The cockroaches ran on their own.”
He lost it
