Struggling Through Labor, a Jealousy-Inducing Message About My Husband’s Affair Arrives, Hurting Me Ten Thousand Times More Than Contractions, and I Reply With Only Three Words…

I—Emma Collins—lay in the delivery room at St. Mary’s Hospital, drenched in sweat, my face flushed red, every muscle in my body stretched to its limit. Contractions kept pounding my abdomen like hundreds of wild waves, making my heart feel like it might explode. Each surge of pain made me scream, gripping tightly onto my husband’s hand, Michael, who was standing by my bedside, sweat also streaming down his face but trying to hide his fear behind a faint encouraging smile.

“Emma, you can do this. Deep breath… inhale… exhale…” Michael whispered, but the sound of my gasps overpowered his voice. I could only nod, clenching my teeth, holding onto the hospital sheets as if my life depended on it.

The thirtieth—or was it the seventieth—contraction in the past hour, I had lost count. I only knew that I was utterly exhausted, and everything around me blurred into a fog of sweat, tears, and excruciating pain. I had thought that nothing in the world could hurt more than labor.

But… fate seemed determined to test me once more.

My phone vibrated. At that moment, I thought I was dreaming. Michael picked it up, unlocking the screen, and his face immediately went pale. I saw the change in his eyes, from worry to shock, mixed with a hint of fear.

“Emma… you… you need to see this… it’s a message…” Michael stammered, his voice shaking.

I squinted, trying to sit up slightly amid the unbearable contractions, and looked at the screen.

It was a message from an unknown number:

“Michael Collins, don’t think your wife is blind. I know everything. You met me last night, thought no one would see? You’re having an affair. Emma would never know… if I didn’t tell her. Be careful.”

Everything in me froze. My heart seemed to stop, and the pain in my abdomen suddenly felt a thousand times crueler. In that moment, I wanted to scream, to strike my husband, to destroy everything—but at the same time, I was trapped by these relentless contractions, each wave making me collapse, sobbing.

Michael, unsure what to do, just stared at me. I could see the guilt and panic in his eyes, but what I felt was not explanation—it was betrayal. And that betrayal, arriving at the very moment I was enduring unimaginable pain, about to welcome my first child, magnified my suffering ten thousand times.

I don’t know how long it took me to suppress this mental anguish, but in that instant, a cold, decisive energy surged within me. I grabbed my phone and typed the only three words I felt were enough to end everything:

“Get out.”

Those three words, simple yet cutting, struck Michael like a dagger to the heart. He froze. I saw the shame, guilt, and fear in his eyes. I didn’t need any more explanations. I didn’t need Michael now. I only needed to survive and bring my child into the world safely, reclaiming myself.

The nurses rushed in as another contraction hit. They helped me reposition, preparing for the delivery. Michael stepped back, speechless. I panted, focusing solely on giving birth, determined not to let emotional pain crush me entirely.

Minutes later, the first cry of my baby echoed, and the physical pain seemed to fade somewhat. I looked at Michael, still standing there, guilt written all over him, but I no longer wanted to meet his gaze. The baby in my arms, small, warm, and innocent, filled me with a love stronger than any hurt or betrayal.

That day, when Michael left the room, I said nothing. I only held my newborn, breathed deeply, and thought: I will move on alone. My baby and I will be fine.

In the following days, as I was discharged, Michael tried to explain, apologize, beg forgiveness, but I didn’t listen. I knew the betrayal wasn’t just a message—it was the harsh truth I had to face. I had learned one thing: physical pain could never compare to emotional pain, but the love for oneself and one’s child could heal everything.

Emma Collins—that’s me—was no longer just a mother. I was a woman who protected herself, confronted the truth, and understood that happiness doesn’t depend on a cheater. Michael Collins may have been my husband, but he no longer had the right to dictate my life.

I sighed, looking at my sleeping baby in my arms, and for the first time in days, I felt peace. That message, those three words—Get out—marked the end of a chapter filled with pain and the beginning of a new one, just my baby, myself, and my freedom.