**Diary Entry**
“I’m pregnant,” I said with a grin, unable to hide my joy.
Matthew, standing by the window, froze. He didn’t turn around, but in the glass’s reflection, I saw his shoulders tense.
I expected an embrace, laughter, anything—but not this stiff, unnatural silence.
“So am I,” came a quiet voice.
My sister, Emily, stepped out of our bedroom wearing Matthew’s T-shirt—the one he slept in, the one I loved. She smoothed her hair, a gesture so casual, so familiar, that for a moment, my vision darkened.
Flashes of memory surfaced—things I’d ignored before.
Matthew staying late at “meetings” while Emily, who’d “just dropped by,” nervously checked her phone. The two of them laughing at inside jokes I didn’t understand, leaving me on the outside of my own life.
“What?” I asked, though I’d heard her perfectly. My voice sounded wooden, foreign.
“Anna, I can explain,” Matthew finally turned. His face was as pale as the hospital corridor. “It’s not what you think. It’s… a mistake.”
Emily met my gaze without flinching. No remorse—just exhaustion and something stubborn.
“It’s not a mistake,” she said flatly. “Stop lying. At least now.”
Matthew shot her a furious look.
“Shut up!”
I shifted my stare between them—the man I’d spent five years building a future with, and the sister I’d shared childhood secrets with. They stood two metres away, but the distance felt like a chasm. And into that chasm fell every “us”—our plans, our tenderness, our unborn child.
“A mistake? So you’ll both have one? Or is it just yours?” My lips twisted into a bitter smile.
He reached for me. “Anna, love, let’s talk. Not now. Emily, leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, crossing her arms. “We’re having a baby. And I won’t let you pretend I don’t exist again.”
I backed away, pressing against the cold hallway wall.
“Get out,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Get out. Both of you.”
They didn’t move. My words, once weighty, now rang hollow.
“Anna, don’t be rash,” Matthew said, that placating tone I hated—the one he used when he wanted me to “see reason.” “You’re a smart woman. We’re adults. Yes, I messed up. But now we have to think about the children. *Our* children.”
He lingered on the last word, trying to tie us back together, to rebuild an illusion.
“Which ‘ours’?” I asked coldly. “The one raised by a single mother, or the one born to his father’s mistress?”
Emily flinched. “Don’t call me that. You don’t know anything.”
“Really?” I turned on her, icy anger replacing shock. “Enlighten me. What should I know? That you slept with my husband in *my* bed? Isn’t that enough?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Her voice hardened. “We love each other. This isn’t just some fling.”
Matthew grabbed his head.
“Emily, I *asked* you—”
“And I’m tired of hiding!” she snapped. “Tired of being your secret, your ‘mistake’ to fix. Anna, you always got everything. The perfect husband, the perfect home. And me? I was just ‘Anna’s sister.’”
Her resentment cut deep. She wasn’t apologising—she was blaming.
I remembered Mum’s old refrain: “Anna’s the clever one, Emily’s the pretty one. Each to their own.” Emily had never accepted her lot.
“So you took mine?” I asked softly.
“I took what was unclaimed!” she shot back. “He wasn’t happy with you. You just refused to see it.”
I looked at Matthew. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. And I knew she was right—not about love, but about how he’d let her believe it, complaining about me, feeding their twisted bond with his weakness and her envy.
“Fine,” I said, calm now. “What’s your solution? Live together? Rotate schedules?”
Matthew lifted his head.
“Stop being childish! I suggest… we live apart for now. I’ll rent Emily a flat. Support you both. We need time to figure this out.”
He spoke like a CEO dividing assets. Risk management.
“So you want me to sit here, pregnant, while you ‘figure out’ which woman to pick?” I laughed—a sharp, ugly sound.
“Anna, you’re making this impossible.”
“No, Matthew. *You* reduced it to something base. Leave. Take her. Collect your things later—when I’m not here.”
I pulled out my phone and dialled.
“Security? There are trespassers in my flat. Yes, refusing to leave.”
Emily glared. Matthew gaped. He’d expected meek little Anna—the woman who always forgave. But she’d died five minutes ago.
The call was a bluff—our building had no security, just a drowsy concierge. But they didn’t know that.
“You’ll regret this,” Matthew hissed, grabbing Emily’s wrist. “Kicking out your pregnant sister.”
“I’m kicking out my husband’s mistress,” I corrected, holding his gaze. “And you’re just a traitor.”
When the door clicked shut, I slid to the floor. No tears. Just hollow adrenaline.
The next day, hell began.
First, my boss called.
“Anna, hello. Your husband rang—Matthew. Says he’s worried about your… ‘emotional instability’ due to the pregnancy.”
Ice crawled down my spine.
“What else did he say?”
“He asked for leave for you—claimed you might make ‘rash decisions.’”
I understood. He wasn’t just leaving—he was sabotaging me, painting me as unstable, targeting my career, my reputation, my independence.
An hour later, his lawyer’s letter arrived: a property claim, demanding not half, but *all* of our flat. The worst part? A request for psychiatric evaluation—to prove I was a “fit mother.”
He’d weaponised my pregnancy.
But he’d forgotten who proofread his contracts, who managed his “creative accounting” when his business was new. I knew every shadow in his empire. He’d handed me the knife himself.
I opened our safe—the one we’d bought for “important documents”—and dialled an old friend, Tom, from the Financial Crimes Unit.
“Tom? I’ve got a story about a very ‘successful’ businessman.”
The next months were war. Matthew pressed harder—lawyers, smear campaigns. But the first blow came six months later: a tax audit. Frozen accounts. He called—I ignored. Emily messaged: *He left me. No money. Help.* I deleted it.
His downfall was slow. Business partners fled. His assets crumbled.
“You ruined me, you stupid cow!” he screamed when his card got declined at a restaurant.
“No, Matthew,” I said, folding baby clothes. “I just turned on the light. The rats ran on their own.”
He lost everything—the flat, his business, his reputation. The custody case collapsed.
Two years later, I sat in a café, watching my son, Oliver, build a block tower. Beside me was Daniel—steady, kind, a man who loved us both.
Then my phone rang.
“Anna? It’s Emily.” Her voice shook. “I’m sorry. I envied you my whole life. Thought stealing him would make me you. But I became nothing.”
“How are you?” I asked evenly.
“I have a daughter, Hope. He didn’t even come to the hospital. Asked me for money and vanished.”
Oliver clapped as his tower stood. Daniel smiled.
“Emily, if Hope needs help, call me,” I said.
“You’d really…?”
“I don’t know. But my door’s open for my niece. As for us? Maybe someday.”
Forgiveness wasn’t fireworks—just a quiet choice to leave the past behind. The betrayal stayed, a scar that no longer hurt but reminded me: I’d survived.
I wasn’t “good little Anna” anymore. I was a woman who fought back.
And I liked her far better.
**Lesson:** Trust is earned, but self-respect is non-negotiable. Never mistake kindness for weakness—because when pushed, even the gentlest heart learns to strike.
