I’m 32 and pregnant with Nazir’s child, a 42-year-old married man who owns a graphic design company. We met while I freelanced; he said his marriage was distant, though I doubted it. Despite my low fertility odds, I got pregnant. Nazir, already a father, was upset and we split. At five months, he learned it was a boy and became involved, attending appointments and sending lullabies.

His wife, Farah, discovered the pregnancy and wanted to meet me. At a coffee shop, she revealed she knew of Nazir’s affairs but offered to be my doula, surprising me. We grew close; Nazir and I co-parented without romance. When I went into labor, Farah rushed to help, coaching me through delivery. She stayed post-birth, supporting me with Daryan, my son.

Two months later, Farah left Nazir, not out of anger but for her own freedom. She told me I helped her realize her worth. Nazir, now in a small apartment, is a good dad to Daryan. Farah visits weekly, becoming like family. We both endured Nazir’s betrayal but formed a bond. Life’s messiness brought pain, but our choices—Farah’s support, my openness—created something beautiful. Mistakes happen, but what follows defines us.