I’m writing this from my sister’s guest room at 2 AM because I can’t sleep, and I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever be able to close my eyes without seeing the look on his face when I confronted him. My hands are still shaking as I type this. I need to get this out somewhere, and maybe someone here has been through something similar and can tell me I’m not losing my mind.
My husband “Mark” and I have been together for eight years, married for five. We’re both in our early thirties, and for the past three years, we’ve been trying to have a baby. It started naturally, then progressed to fertility treatments, and finally to IVF. If you’ve never been through IVF, let me tell you—it’s hell. It’s physically exhausting, emotionally draining, and financially devastating. Each round cost us nearly fifteen thousand dollars, and we’ve done three rounds. That’s forty-five thousand dollars, countless hormones pumped into my body, more invasive procedures than I can count, and three heartbreaking failures.
Through all of it, Mark was my rock. Or so I thought. He held my hand during egg retrievals, rubbed my back when the hormone injections made me sick, and cried with me when each round failed. He kept saying things like “We’re in this together” and “It’ll happen for us, I promise.” I believed every word.
About six months ago, I noticed he was being secretive with his phone. He’d take calls in another room, angle his screen away from me, and started working late more often. Classic affair signs, right? I felt sick thinking about it, but part of me understood—maybe the pressure of trying to conceive had pushed him away. Maybe he needed an escape from our fertility nightmare. I was hurt, but I told myself we could work through it if he was honest with me.
I never imagined the truth would be so much worse.
Last week, Mark told me he had a work conference in Denver and would be gone for four days. Something felt off—he’d never mentioned this conference before, and when I asked about details, he was vague. The morning he left, I did something I’m not proud of: I tracked his phone using our shared family location app. He wasn’t in Denver. He was three hours away in a neighboring state.
I took a sick day from work and drove there. I had the address from the location tracker, and when I pulled up to this beautiful suburban house with a white picket fence and a swing set in the yard, my stomach dropped. This wasn’t a hotel or an apartment—this was a home. A family home.
I sat in my car for almost an hour, trying to decide what to do. Then I saw her. A woman, probably late twenties, pretty in that effortless way I’ve never been able to achieve. She came out of the house carrying a baby—an infant who couldn’t have been more than a few months old. She was smiling, talking to the baby, completely natural. Like a mother.
Then Mark came out behind her.
He kissed her. Not a quick peck—a real kiss, the kind that speaks of intimacy and familiarity. Then he took the baby from her arms, held him up in the air, and the baby laughed. My husband was playing with a baby while I was pumping myself full of hormones to try to give him one.
I don’t remember getting out of the car. I don’t remember walking up the driveway. But suddenly I was standing in front of them, and the color drained from Mark’s face so fast I thought he might pass out.
“What the hell is this?” My voice didn’t even sound like mine.
The woman—”Jessica” I’d later learn—immediately clutched the baby to her chest and stepped back. Mark just stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. No words came out.
“Someone better start explaining right now,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice was when everything inside me was shattering.
Jessica looked at Mark. “You said you were going to tell her. You promised you’d tell her after the last IVF failed.”
That’s when I knew. Whatever this was, it was planned. It was intentional. This wasn’t just an affair—this was a whole separate life.
Mark finally found his voice. “Can we please go inside and talk about this privately?”
“Privately?” I laughed, and it sounded hysterical even to my own ears. “You want privacy? While you’re standing here with your mistress and what—your secret baby? How long has this been going on?”
“Two years,” Jessica said quietly. When Mark shot her a look, she shook her head. “No, Mark. She deserves to know. She’s been pumping herself full of hormones while you’ve been—” She stopped, looking down at the baby in her arms.
Two years. We’d been doing IVF for three years, which meant he’d started this affair right in the middle of our fertility journey. While I was having my eggs harvested, he was apparently falling in love with someone else.
“Is that your baby?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
“No,” Mark said quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, biologically, no. We adopted him.”
Adopted. They adopted a baby. Together. While I was spending thousands of dollars and destroying my body trying to have his child, he was adopting a baby with another woman.
“When?” I asked.
“Three months ago,” Jessica said. “The adoption was finalized in October.”
October. That was right after our third failed IVF round. The round where I’d been so devastated I could barely get out of bed for a week. The round where Mark held me while I sobbed and told me we’d try again, that he wasn’t giving up on having a family with me.
Except he already had a family. Just not with me.
“I need to see the papers,” I heard myself say. “The adoption papers.”
Mark looked panicked. “Why? What does that—”
“Because if you forged my signature or somehow used our joint finances for this, you’ve committed fraud. So show me the papers. Now.”
We went inside—this house that my husband apparently owned or rented or whatever. It was decorated beautifully, with family photos on the walls. Photos of Mark and Jessica. Photos of them with the baby. There was even a photo from what looked like an adoption ceremony, both of them holding the baby with a judge in the background.
My entire marriage was a lie, and the evidence was hanging on these walls.
Jessica brought out a folder with all the adoption paperwork. I read through it, my legal assistant training kicking in despite my emotional state. Both their names were on the documents. It was a private adoption, and they’d used an attorney I didn’t recognize. The financial documents showed they’d paid the legal fees and birth mother expenses—forty thousand dollars total.
Forty thousand dollars. Almost exactly what we’d spent on IVF. Money that Mark had claimed was coming from his “bonus” and “savings.”
“Where did you get forty thousand dollars?” I asked, my voice deadly calm now.
Mark wouldn’t meet my eyes. “My parents helped.”
“Your parents?” I laughed again, that same hysterical sound. “Your parents who told us they couldn’t help with IVF costs because they were ‘financially stretched’? Those parents?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His parents knew. They’d chosen to fund his secret family instead of helping us start the family we’d been trying to create.
“How long were you planning to keep this from me?” I asked.
“I was going to tell you,” Mark said weakly. “I just didn’t know how. The affair started as a mistake, but then Jessica got pregnant—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “You said you adopted. Jessica was pregnant?”
They exchanged a glance, and Jessica spoke up. “I was pregnant, but I miscarried at twelve weeks. We were devastated. The adoption happened later, but Mark’s right—I got pregnant during the affair, and that’s when we realized we wanted to be together.”
So not only had he cheated on me, but he’d gotten another woman pregnant while I was literally being medically examined for fertility issues. While doctors were telling me my eggs were viable and my uterus was healthy and there was no reason we shouldn’t be able to conceive.
“Did you ever actually want a baby with me?” I asked Mark. “Or was IVF just something to keep me busy while you built your real life here?”
“Of course I wanted a baby with you,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. This just happened, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”
“You love me?” I stood up, my whole body shaking now. “You love me, but you’ve been living a double life for two years? You love me, but you let me go through three rounds of IVF—let me pump myself full of hormones, let me have surgery, let me blame myself every time it failed—while you already had a family waiting for you here?”
“The IVF was your idea,” he said, and I actually recoiled like he’d slapped me.
“My idea? You’re the one who said you wanted kids! You’re the one who suggested fertility treatments when it wasn’t happening naturally! You sat in those doctor’s appointments and nodded along and agreed to everything!”
“Because you wanted it so badly,” he said. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
I couldn’t breathe. The room was spinning. This man—the person I’d trusted more than anyone in the world—had let me torture myself for three years rather than just tell me the truth. He’d watched me inject myself daily with medications that made me sick. He’d been there for egg retrievals where they put me under anesthesia and harvested my eggs. He’d held my hand during embryo transfers where I had to lie still afterward, hoping and praying that this time would work.
And all of it—every single moment—had been a lie.
I left. I took photos of the adoption papers with my phone, got in my car, and drove to my sister’s house. That was four days ago. Mark has called 127 times. He’s sent countless texts ranging from apologies to anger to begging. Jessica has reached out too, claiming she didn’t know the full extent of the lies until I showed up, that Mark had told her we were “basically separated” and just going through the motions.
I’ve contacted a divorce attorney. She says I have an incredibly strong case, especially given that he used marital funds for the affair and secret adoption. She’s also looking into whether his parents’ “gift” of money for the adoption could be considered dissipation of marital assets since they refused to help with our legitimate fertility treatments.
But here’s what’s killing me: I still want a baby. After everything, after learning that my marriage was a sham and my husband was living a double life, I still feel this aching emptiness when I think about not being a mother. The IVF failed three times with Mark, but I have three frozen embryos at the clinic. They’re technically marital property, and I could fight for them in the divorce.
But do I want to have a baby alone? Do I want to bring a child into this mess? Or do I let go of the dream entirely and try to rebuild my life from scratch?
I don’t know what I’m looking for here. Advice? Validation that I’m not crazy for feeling this gutted? Permission to burn his entire life down the way he’s burned mine?
I just know that I can’t stop thinking about that baby’s laugh when Mark held him up in the air. The way Jessica looked at my husband with trust and love. The family photos on the wall.
They have everything I wanted. And they built it on the ashes of my life.
Update 1: A few people have asked about the timeline. Mark and I got married in May 2021. We started trying for a baby naturally in January 2023. After a year of trying, we saw a fertility specialist in January 2024. Our first IVF round was April 2024. Second round was July 2024. Third round was September 2024. His affair with Jessica started in February 2024, right before our first IVF cycle. Jessica got pregnant in May 2024 (during our first IVF round) and miscarried in July 2024 (right before our second round). They adopted the baby—”Connor”—in October 2024, about three weeks after our third failed IVF round. I discovered everything on January 2nd, 2026.
Update 2: I told my parents tonight. My dad cried, which I’ve only seen happen twice in my entire life. My mom is ready to commit murder. They want to pay for my attorney fees and have offered to cover another round of IVF if I decide I want to pursue single motherhood. I’m not ready to think about that yet.
Update 3: Mark’s mother called me. She actually had the audacity to say that she hopes I can “find it in my heart to forgive” and that Mark “made a mistake but he’s still a good man” and that she hopes this won’t “destroy our family.” I told her that Mark destroyed our family when he adopted a baby with his mistress. Then I hung up. I’m blocking all of his family members.
People keep asking if I’m going to confront Mark in person. I don’t know. Part of me wants to scream at him until my voice gives out. Part of me never wants to see his face again. Right now, I’m just trying to get through each day without completely falling apart.
If anyone has been through something even remotely similar, please tell me it gets better. Because right now, I feel like I’ll never be whole again.
