1089 He Planned a Cross-Country Trip With His Single Coworker to Escape Fatherhood—Until His Wallet Left Him Stranded and His Wife Went Into Labor Alone

The light from Jake’s phone flickered out as he pressed the screen against his thigh, but the damage was already done. The name had been there in bright white letters: Chloe Vance.

“Give me the phone, Jake,” I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register that I didn't even recognize as my own.

“Liv, stop it. You’re spiraling over nothing.” He took a step back toward the stairs. “She’s just checking about the departure time for Friday morning. We’re all meeting at the gas station off Interstate 25 at 6:00 AM.”

“If it’s just about departure times, hand me the phone.”

He didn't move. He clutched the device a little tighter, his knuckles white.

That hesitation was all the confirmation I needed. The story he had spun—about a convenient extra driver, a platonic road trip, a stressed-out coworker needing a break—dissolved into nothing. If it were innocent, he would have handed me the screen without a second thought.

“How long, Jake?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“How long what?”

“How long has she been part of this trip? Because Nora said the beach rental was booked three weeks ago. That was before you even started pretending to have an existential crisis about the baby.”

Jake flinched. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking hollowed out.

“It wasn't planned like that,” he stammered, his bravado finally cracking completely. “When we talked about doing the drive six months ago, before you got pregnant... Chloe was part of the original group chat. Back when we thought we’d all have more freedom this summer.”

I felt as though the floor had dropped out from under me.

“Six months ago?” I repeated, the words tasting metallic. “You were planning a trip with her before we even decided to stop using birth control?”

“No—that’s not what I meant—the group chat existed from last year’s trip to Vegas, and—”

“Stop talking, Jake.” I raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. The excuses weren't just insulting; they were pathetic.

I looked at the man I had married, the man who had painted clouds on a nursery wall and cried tears of joy over a positive test, and realized I didn't know him at all. The life we were building wasn't a shared future to him; it was an interruption. And Chloe wasn't an accidental extra driver—she was a relic of the life he refused to let go of, or perhaps a blueprint for the life he actually wanted.

“You’re still going, aren’t you?” I asked, looking past him down the dark hallway.

Jake swallowed hard. He didn't say yes, but his silence was deafening.

“If you walk out that front door on Friday morning,” I said evenly, “don’t bother coming back.”

He stared at me, panic finally breaking through his stubbornness. “Liv, you can’t be serious. You’re about to have a baby in three weeks! You can’t just throw our marriage away over a road trip!”

“I’m not throwing our marriage away, Jake,” I said, my hand resting firmly on my stomach as our son gave a sharp, reassuring kick against my palm. “You already did that. I’m just accepting the reality of it.”