Sunrise Bedroom Scene of a Pregnancy Test Found in a Purse Against Pink-Washed Walls
It was a Sunday morning, and the light coming through the blinds was soft and golden. The kind of light that makes everything look warmer than it really is. I was folding laundry at the edge of our bed, stacking his T-shirts by color the way he liked them. The house was quiet. Too quiet, maybe. But I didn’t think anything of it right away. Our daughter was sleeping over at my sister’s, and my husband had gone out early, said he needed to pick up something from the hardware store. I thought I’d take the chance to clean up the bedroom.
We had painted the walls pink a few months ago, not because I loved pink, but because it was the only color we could agree on. It was a soft shade, almost peach in the morning sun, and it made the room feel a little less like a place where arguments happened. We’d been arguing more. Small things, mostly. Dishes in the sink, late nights at work, the usual. Nothing that felt big enough to break us. Or at least that’s what I thought.
While putting away his socks, I noticed his gym bag on the floor next to the dresser. He never left it there. He was obsessive about keeping things in their place. I bent down to move it, but it felt too light, almost empty. I opened the zipper to check if it needed washing. There was just a water bottle and a small zippered pouch inside. I don’t know why I opened the pouch. I wasn’t looking for anything. Maybe I was just bored, going through the motions. But inside it, along with a few crumpled receipts and some coins, was a pregnancy test. Still in its wrapper, unopened.
For a second, I didn’t react. I just stared at it, like maybe it would explain itself if I looked long enough. I checked the expiration date on the back. It was recent. I turned it over in my hand, then dropped it on the bed like it had burned me. My first thought wasn’t even what it should have been. I thought maybe he bought it for me, even though I hadn’t missed a period. Even though we hadn’t been trying. Even though I hadn’t mentioned anything about possibly being pregnant.
But it wasn’t for me. I knew that before I even let the thought finish forming in my head. It sat there on the bedspread, in the soft morning light, like a question I didn’t want to answer. I picked it up again and stared at it until I couldn’t anymore. Then I put everything back exactly where I found it.
He came home about an hour later. I was in the kitchen wiping down the table even though it was already clean. He kissed me on the cheek, set down a plastic bag with some screws and a roll of duct tape, and said something about traffic. I nodded and smiled like nothing was wrong. I don’t know why. I think part of me wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. If I didn’t say anything, maybe it wouldn’t be real.
That evening, I waited until he was in the shower to check his phone. I know that makes me sound like the kind of person I never wanted to be. I’ve always believed in privacy, in trust. But I was shaking when I picked it up, my thumb fumbling over the passcode. He hadn’t changed it. I went through his messages. Nothing obvious. Nothing suspicious. Most of them were work-related. But then I found one from a number not saved in his contacts. It was short. Just a few words. “I’m scared. I haven’t told him yet.”
I sat there on the edge of our bed, staring at that message until the shower stopped. I put the phone back and stood up, my heart pounding so hard I thought he might hear it. When he came out, I smiled again. We watched TV like we always did. Ate leftovers. He fell asleep on the couch, and I just sat there, staring at nothing.
The next few days, I moved through life like a ghost. I still made breakfast, still packed our daughter’s lunch, still folded clothes and asked him how his day was. But I was somewhere else inside. I kept waiting for him to say something, to confess, to explain. He never did. And I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to hear it out loud.
One night, I took his gym bag again while he was asleep. The test was still there. Unused. I don’t know why that hurt more somehow. Like it was proof the secret was ongoing, still unfolding. I started imagining everything—the woman, what she looked like, what she meant to him. I started questioning everything about myself. Was it my fault? Was I not enough? Had I missed signs?
A week later, I told my sister. I didn’t plan to. We were having coffee, and she asked if I was okay. I just started crying. The kind of crying that makes people uncomfortable because it’s too raw, too real. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held my hand and waited. Then she told me I had to talk to him. I nodded, but I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t ready.
It took another month before I said anything. By then, I had memorized every possible scenario in my head. I had practiced what I would say, how I would say it. But when the moment came, all I could manage was to hold up the test in my hand and look at him. He didn’t even pretend. He just sat down, quiet, his face pale. I asked if it was true. He nodded. I asked how long. He said a few months. I asked who. He told me her name. I didn’t recognize it.
He said it was a mistake. That he didn’t mean to hurt me. That he didn’t know what he was thinking. I didn’t say much after that. I just stood up, walked into our bedroom, and closed the door. I lay on the bed and stared at the pink walls, wondering how something so soft could feel so cold now.
I didn’t leave right away. We had a child. A house. A life. I thought maybe I could forgive him. Maybe we could get through it. But something had broken. I could still see him every day, still hear his voice, still smell his cologne on the couch cushions. But I couldn’t feel close to him anymore. It was like a wall had gone up between us, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t tear it down.
Three months after I found the test, I asked him to move out. He didn’t argue. He packed a bag that night and stayed at his brother’s. Our daughter cried when I told her. She didn’t understand. I told her we both loved her very much. That was true, at least.
It’s been almost a year now. We’re officially separated. I’m not angry anymore. Just tired. Some days I still wake up expecting to see him next to me. And then I remember. I’ve painted the bedroom walls a different color now—light gray. Something neutral. Something quiet.
I’ve learned that people can break your heart even when you think you know them. That love doesn’t always protect you. That silence can be just as loud as shouting. And that sometimes, even when you forgive someone, you still can’t stay.
I don’t wish him harm. I hope he’s being honest now, whoever he’s with. I hope the baby, if there was one, is healthy and loved. I hope one day he understands what he lost.
As for me, I’m still figuring things out. But I’m okay. Most mornings, I open the blinds and let the sunlight in. I make coffee. I pack my daughter’s lunch. I sit at the kitchen table and breathe. And that’s enough for now.
