On Christmas Eve, my husband didn’t arrive, and when I called him, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “He can’t talk. He’s with his wife, giving birth to their baby.”

I thought our first Christmas as a family would be perfect until my husband didn’t come home. Hours later, when a woman answered his phone, my world shattered. Was Harold living a double life, or was there more to the story?

The house smelled like Christmas. The turkey was resting on the counter, golden brown and perfect.
Mashed potatoes, green beans, and stuffing were ready to go. Harold’s favorite apple pie sat on the cooling rack, filling the air with a sweet cinnamon scent. I smiled as I looked around. Everything was just right.

The table was set with the red-and-gold placemats we’d picked out together last year. I even used the good silverware, the ones we’d been saving for special occasions. This was special — our first Christmas as a family of three.

I peeked into Denise’s room. She was snuggled in her crib, her little chest rising and falling with each soft breath. “Merry Christmas, sweet girl,” I whispered, brushing a curl from her forehead.

The clock said 6:00 p.m. Harold had promised he’d be home early. “I’ll be there by five,” he’d said that morning, kissing me goodbye. I wasn’t worried yet. He was probably stuck at work or caught in traffic.