Saturday mornings were always quiet.

I was making coffee while my husband was upstairs getting ready.

His phone buzzed across the kitchen counter.

Unknown number.

Normally, I never touched his phone.

This time, I answered without thinking.

A woman spoke first.

"Is this still his number?"

I hesitated.

"Who's calling?"

She sighed.

"I've been trying to reach him for weeks."

I felt my stomach tighten.

Then she asked,

"Can you tell him our son keeps asking where his father is?"

Everything around me seemed to stop.

I couldn't breathe.

Before I could ask another question, footsteps came down the stairs.

My husband walked into the kitchen.

He saw his phone in my hand.

His face turned pale.

He didn't ask who called.

He already knew.

I looked at him.

My voice barely worked.

"Who is she?"

He closed his eyes.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Finally, he whispered,

"You're about to hear something that should have been told years ago."

I waited.

Then he quietly said,

"It isn't the story you think..."

"...because the child she's talking about isn't mine."

END.