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Short filmTranscript
00:00I was 25 weeks pregnant. My husband's app said his second baby was already at 28 weeks.
00:09That's how I discovered my marriage was a lie. While I was carrying his child,
00:15he was building another family behind my back and planning a future that didn't include me.
00:20But my husband made one fatal mistake. He thought I'd never uncover the truth.
00:253am. The baby kicks me awake. Small foot. Familiar rhythm. 25 weeks of knowing this body from the
00:35inside. My phone glows on the nightstand. Cole Family Network. The app Marcus installed for us.
00:41Our little family network. I open it expecting my own chart. My weight. My water intake. The
00:47lullaby playlist he made me. Instead, a red banner. I read it again. Second baby.
00:55Week 28? I am 25 weeks. There is no second baby. The screen burns into my eyes.
01:04My thumb hovers over the words like they might arrange themselves into something I understand.
01:10They don't. The room is quiet. Marcus is breathing beside me, deep and even. One arm thrown across
01:16his pillow, the way he always sleeps. My husband. The father of my child. Only mine. I look at him.
01:24At the curve of his shoulder in the dark. At the man I married three years ago in a chapel
01:30full of
01:30white peenies because I told him once they were my favorite. I want to believe the screen is wrong.
01:36A glitch. A stranger's data crossed with mine in some server room a thousand miles away.
01:41I want to believe it so badly. My hands are shaking. Then he stirs. His lips move against the pillow.
01:48A whisper. Soft. Tender. The voice he used to use on me before I got big and tired and quiet.
01:56Elena.
01:57The baby kicks again. Harder this time. Like she heard it too. I don't scream. I don't cry. I do
02:05something worse. I reach across the bed and shake him awake. Wake up! Marcus!
02:13What? What time is it?
02:15Look at this.
02:18Sarah, it's three in the morning.
02:20Read it. He reads it. I am watching his face the way a doctor watches a heart monitor. Every
02:26flicker. Every twitch. For half a second his whole body goes rigid. Shoulders. Jaw. The hand holding
02:32the phone. Then he laughs. Soft. Sleepy. Practiced.
02:36Baby. It's a bug. The app's been glitching for weeks. Daniel at work said the same thing happened
02:42to him. It syncs somebody else's data to your profile.
02:45It says second baby.
02:47It says a lot of things. I'll call the company tomorrow and tear them apart for scaring my
02:53pregnant wife at three in the morning. Okay?
02:56He pulls me down against his chest. His hand spreads wide across my belly. Warm. Steady.
03:03The hand I fell asleep under for a thousand nights.
03:06Our baby is 25 weeks. Our baby. Right here. Feel that?
03:12The baby kicks against his hum. He laughs and I feel the vibration of it in his ribs.
03:16If I had not been walking, I would have believed him. But I was watching. And I felt it.
03:21The half second his body forgot to be relaxed. The half second his spine turned to wire under
03:26my cheek. My husband is a very good liar. I did not know that about him until tonight.
03:32I close my eyes. I make my breathing slow. The way the prenatal videos taught me.
03:37I count to 200. At 180, he moves.
03:45He's sitting up, hunched over the screen. Thumb flying. He deletes something first.
03:50A swipe. A tap. Gone. Then he opens a chat.
03:54The contact photo at the top is a woman. Her back to the camera. Long, dark hair down
04:00to her waist. Saved as one letter. E.
04:04She found out. The app data got through.
04:06I thought you said it was airtight. Marcus. My belly is getting bigger every day.
04:12Don't worry. I'll handle it.
04:14Handle it? You call this handling it? I need you at my prenatal appointment tomorrow.
04:19Riverside Women's Clinic. Don't forget.
04:22I am not breathing. I have not been breathing for a while.
04:26Marcus's thumb hovers. I can see his profile in the blue light. The same profile I have kissed a
04:32thousand times. I'll be there. He deletes the conversation. Every message. Gone like it was
04:40never there. He sets the phone face down on the nightcand. He lies back. Within 90 seconds,
04:46his breathing is even again. My husband can fall asleep after that. I stare at the ceiling.
04:52until the dark turns gray. Riverside Women's Clinic. Tomorrow. Her belly is getting bigger
04:59every day. 28 weeks. Three weeks ahead of mine. Three weeks. Which means when he was promising me
05:07forever in front of a hundred people, when he was pressing his ear to my stomach and whispering
05:12hello little one, he was already with her. I think about screaming. I think about waking him up and
05:20clawing his face open. I think about walking into the kitchen and picking up something heavy.
05:26I don't do any of it. Because the woman who screams gets a story. He'll say I'm hysterical,
05:33hormonal, unstable. He'll get custody-ready quotes from his mother. He'll move money.
05:39The woman who is quiet gets the truth. I lay my hand on my belly. 25 weeks. A daughter. He
05:46doesn't know it's a girl yet. I was saving it for his birthday next month. I'm sorry, baby. Mommy was
05:52stupid. Mommy is done being stupid. The sun comes up. I get out of bed. I make him coffee the
05:58way he
05:58likes it. Two sugars. A splash of cream. Love you. Get some rest today, okay? Love you too.
06:05Riverside Women's Clinic. I want to see her face.
06:14I park across the street at 845. A bench under a maple tree. A bottle of water. Shun glasses. A
06:22maternity coat big enough to hide me from anyone glancing twice. I wait. Couples go in. A woman with
06:29her mother. A man pushing a wheelchair. A teenager alone, eyes red. Each time the glass doors slide
06:35open, my heart slams against my ribs, and the baby kicks like she's furious with me for it.
06:419 o'clock. 10. 11. At 11.47, a black sedan pulls up. His sedan. The one I picked out
06:50with him at the
06:50dealership last spring because I said the leather smelled like a library. In the navy shirt I ironed
06:57yesterday. And she steps out. I can't see her face. She has her forehead pressed into his chest
07:03the second her feet touch the pavement, like the walk from the car to the door is too much for
07:08her.
07:08Her belly. It is bigger than mine. Round and high and proud under a soft white dress. He walks her
07:14in
07:14like she is made of glass. He has not walked me anywhere like that in eight months. He told me
07:19last
07:19week he was just tired. Work was crazy. The baby would come and we'd find our way back. I am
07:26taking
07:27pictures. My hands are not shaking. I am surprised by that.
07:35Forty minutes later they come out. He has her arm. He guides her to the passenger seat. He buckles
07:41her seatbelt himself. Leans across her belly. Careful. Slow. The way men do in movies. Then he
07:48straightens. He brushes her hair back. He bends down. He kisses her forehead. I take the picture.
07:55Shutter silent. The kiss freezes on my screen. His lips on her hairline. Her eyes closed. Her hand
08:02resting on top of his on her belly. I take three more. From three angles. I am very calm. I
08:09am the
08:09calmest I have ever been in my life. Then I open my phone and I call my husband. I watch
08:15through the
08:15windshield. He pulls back from her. He glances at the screen. The line picks up. In the background I hear
08:21the soft ding of an elevator. He is not in. Office chat it. That is not happening. He has an
08:26app for
08:27it. I never knew that until this second. Hey baby. You okay? I'm okay. The baby's been quiet. I just
08:34wanted to hear your voice. Oh I'm sorry. I'm slammed back-to-back meetings until at least four. The
08:40Henderson deal blew up this morning. Are you coming home for lunch? I can't. Order something for
08:45yourself okay? Get the soup you like. Okay. I love you. Put your feet up. I love you too. He
08:52hangs up.
08:53He turns back to the car. He smiles at her through the window. The smile I married. He gets in.
08:59The
08:59sedan pulls out into the noon traffic. I watch the brake lights flare once at the corner. The bench is
09:05still warm under me. My water bottle is half full. The world has not noticed that it ended.
09:157.30. He comes home with champagne roses in one arm and a small velvet box in the other.
09:23The roses are the exact shade I pointed at in a magazine 18 months ago. The necklace inside the
09:28box is the one I touched in a window last Christmas and said, jokingly, someday. For my girls. Both of
09:35you. He clasps it around my neck himself. His fingers brush the back of my hair. I do not flinch.
09:41I have
09:41practiced not flinching for nine hours. It's beautiful. How was work? Brutal. New project.
09:49Meetings all day. I don't want to talk about it. I want to look at my wife. I catch it.
09:55Faint. Sharp.
09:56Underneath the cologne. Hospital Anticept. Not the brand we keep in our bathroom. I go to the kitchen to
10:03get him a glass of water. He goes to shower. I move fast. His jacket is on the back of
10:09the chair.
10:10Outer pockets. Empty. Wiped clean. He thought of that. Inner pocket. My fingers find something folded
10:17small. Hard edges. Glossy paper. I pull it out. A sonograph. The little curled body. The little
10:24curled spine. 28 weeks. A boy. The header at the top says Riverside Women's Clinic. Today's date.
10:30Where the mother's name should be, the paper has been torn. Carefully. A clean strip removed.
10:36Only the first letter survives. E. I refold it along the same creases. Exactly.
10:43I put it back in the inner pocket. I straighten the jacket on the chair. I am at the stove
10:49stirring
10:49soup when he comes out of the shower in a clean white t-shirt, smelling like our soap again.
10:53He kisses the top of my head. He tells me I look beautiful in the necklace. I let him feed
10:58me a
10:58spoonful of broth. I sleep next to him that night. I do not move for eight hours.
11:04Three days later, Marcus's mother Rosa calls.
11:09Sarah, sweetheart. How's my granddaughter?
11:11Kicking. She loves your voice.
11:13Listen. Your cousin Margaret is coming through town next week.
11:17I told her she could stay at the Westside house. There's plenty of room.
11:21Tell Marcus to send someone over to air it out, would you?
11:24Yeah. Fresh sheets. The usual.
11:27I lower the spoon I am holding. The Westside house?
11:31Mm-hmm.
11:31Mom, I thought Marcus rented that place out last year. He said the tenants were on a two-year lease.
11:36Rented? Honey, no. That house has been sitting empty since we bought it. Don't listen to Marcus's
11:42nonsense. He's always making things up to avoid having relatives stay. Just tell him to get it ready.
11:46Right. Of course. I'll tell him.
11:48Good girl. Rest those feet.
11:50The line clicks off. I stand in the kitchen with the phone in my hand. The soup is burning.
11:55I do not turn off the stove. Empty. The house has been empty for a year. A whole house. In
12:00the
12:00west part of the city. With no one in it. According to his mother. And every time I have asked
12:05him
12:05about it in the last six months, he has said the same easy thing.
12:08Oh, the tenants are fine. Rent came in on time. Don't worry about it, baby.
12:13He has been lying about a house. A house big enough to hide a woman in. Saturday morning, he ties
12:20his tie
12:20in the mirror. He tells me there's a fire at the office. He'll be home by dinner.
12:26I hate leaving you on a weekend.
12:30It's okay. Go.
12:32The door closes. I open the tracking app I installed on his phone. Four nights ago. While he was sleeping
12:39with one hand on my belly. The blue dot moves across the city. Past his office building. Past
12:44the highway exit he would take for work. West. It stops. The address that fills the screen is the
12:50west side house. I do not get in the car. I do not go there. He would have a story
12:56ready before I
12:57finish knocking. A contractor. A leak. A surprise for me. Anything. He is too good at this.
13:06Instead, I open the property management portal for the building. I type in his phone number
13:11for the usernator. I try his birthday for the password. I am in. Visitor access. Six months
13:18of records. One code used almost every day. Morning, evening, weekends. The code is registered
13:26to a single resident. I click the name. The page loads. Facial recognition photo at the top.
13:32Required for entry. A woman. Twenty-something. Long dark hair down past her shoulders. Soft eyes. A
13:39small private smile at the camera. The kind you give someone holding the phone, not the camera
13:43itself. I know this face. Not from anywhere in my life. From a contact photo. Saved under one letter.
13:49On a phone screen in the dark at three in the morning. E. I look at her smile a long
13:53time. I
13:54cannot stop looking. She is beautiful. That is the part that surprises me. I thought she would be
13:59ugly. I thought it would be easier if she was ugly. I do not close the portal. I scroll. There
14:04is a tab
14:05at the top. Community board. Resident events. Photo galleries. I click it because I am not ready to stand
14:11up yet. Because if I stand up, something inside me is going to come apart. And I am not ready.
14:17Last month's event. Most beautiful expectant mother. Building 7 annual contest. 40-something
14:23entries. Pregnant women in soft dresses standing in the lobby with their partners. Captions underneath
14:28each photo. Resident names. Unit numbers. Cute little hearts. I scroll. Page 1. Page 5. Page 10.
14:35Page 15. I stop. A photograph. A woman in a pale blue dress. Hand resting on a high round belly.
14:42Long dark hair. The same soft eyes from the facial recognition photo. She is laughing at
14:48something off camera. A man stands behind her. His arm is around her shoulders. His other hand is
14:54spread wide across her belly. Protective. Proud. The way men do in the magazines I used to read.
15:00He is laughing too. It is Marcus. My Marcus. The man who tied his tie in our
15:05mirror this morning. The man whose ring is on my finger. The man whose daughter is kicking inside
15:11me right now. Hard. Like she is trying to get my attention. My eyes drop to the caption beneath the
15:17photo. Small black letters. Cheerfy font. Resident of Unit 11. 1. Miss Elena and her husband Mr. Cole.
15:25Her husband. Mr. Cole. I read the three words again. And again. Her. Husband. Mr. and Mrs. Cole.
15:32Three words. I read them until they stop meaning anything. I'm the one with the marriage certificate.
15:37The one whose name is on his tax return. The one carrying his child at 25 weeks. So what is
15:42she?
15:43I close the laptop. My hand isn't shaking. That surprises me. I open my phone. Our wedding photo
15:49is still the lock screen. I changed it last month because he asked me to. He said it embarrassed
15:54him at work when people saw it. I take a screenshot of the community page. Marcus. Elena. Mr. and Mrs.
16:00Cole. Then I open our wedding photo. Marcus. Me. White dress. His hand on my waist. Both
16:05of us smiling like the rest of our lives was already decided. Two pictures. Same man. Two
16:10women. I open the chat with my husband. I attach both photos. My thumb hovers over the send
16:15button. I don't write anything. No question. No accusation. No why. Words would give him room
16:21to maneuver. Words would let him answer the question I asked instead of the one I meant. Just
16:26the photos. Send. The little checkbook goes blue. Delivered. Then blue again. Red. I set
16:37the phone face up on the kitchen counter. I pour myself a glass of water. My hand is steady.
16:44The water doesn't tremble. I sit on the stool. I watch the screen go dark. I watch my own reflection
16:51in the black glass. Pale. Calm. 26 weeks pregnant. Waiting for my husband to explain why another
16:57woman is wearing my last name. One minute passes. Two. The apartment is so quiet I can hear the
17:02refrigerator hum. He's typing. The three dots appear. They disappear. They appear again. He's
17:09choosing. He's choosing which version of the truth to tell me. I rest both hands on my belly. The baby
17:15kicks once. Soft. Right under my palm. As if to remind me there is a witness inside me. As if
17:20to say
17:20whatever he tells you next. Remember I heard it too. The screen lights up. Incoming call. Marcus.
17:26I let it ring. Four rings. Five. I let him sweat. Then I answer. I don't say hello. Sarah. Sarah
17:34listen to me. Listen. His voice is wrong. Too fast. Too soft. He's smiling through it. I can hear the
17:40shape of the smile. But underneath his breath is uneven. That photo is fake. Someone photoshopped
17:45it. I swear to you. On our baby. It's fake. Hmm. That woman. Elena. She's a distant cousin
17:53on my father's side. Her family is in a bad place. I let her use the apartment for a few
17:57months. Just until she gets back on her feet. That's all. That's all it ever was. He has
18:01the whole reach ready. Distant cousin. Charity. Family. The words come out so smooth I can tell
18:07he rehearsed them in his head on the way to the phone. She must have found our wedding photo
18:11on my phone. She's unstable, Sarah. I think she's trying to blackmail me. I was going to
18:20tell you. I was waiting for the right moment so you wouldn't worry. You were waiting for
18:26the right moment? Yes. Yes, baby. You know me. You know I would never... My free hand
18:31has gone numb. Not from shock. From how hard I'm gripping the edge of the counter. You're
18:38the only one I love. You're carrying my child. Everything else is noise. Don't let some stranger
18:43break what we have. What we have. He says it like it's a thing he still owns. Like our
18:48marriage is a vase on a shelf he can dust off and present to me. Marcus. Yes. The photo
18:52is photoshipped. Yes. The apartment is charity. Yes, baby. Exactly. Then the baby in her belly.
18:58I let the paws sit. Long enough for him to hear it land. Is that photoshopped too? Silence.
19:03Silence. The kind of silence that has weight. The kind that fills a room. His breathing
19:07stops. I count his silence. One second. Two. Three. A man who has nothing to hide answers
19:15in under a second. Then, not his voice. Hers. Sarah. Sarah, please. Soft. Trembling. The voice
19:25of a woman who has been crying or who knows how to sound like one. Please don't blame him.
19:30Please. This is my fault. All of it. So she was sitting right next to him the whole time.
19:35She heard every word of his rehearsed cousin's story. She waited for her cue. I couldn't help
19:40it. I tried. I tried so hard to stay away. But the baby. The baby is innocent. Please.
19:47I'm begging you. Begging me for what? Don't take his name from our son. Our son. She already
19:56knows it's a boy. She's already chosen the word our. Sarah, she's emotional. She
20:00doesn't know what she's saying. I do know. I do. Sarah, you're his wife. I know that.
20:04I'm not asking to be his wife. I just want our baby to have a father. It's a performance.
20:09Two actors. One script. He plays the conflicted husband. She plays the desperate mistress with
20:16a heart of gold. They've rehearsed this. Maybe in bed. Maybe in the apartment with my husband's
20:22hand on her belly. How far along are you? 28 weeks. Two weeks ahead of me. He was already
20:28inside her when he proposed the trip to Maui. He was already her Mr. Cole when he held my
20:32hair back through the first trimester nausea. Sarah, say something. Please.
20:38I look down at my belly. My baby kicks again. Harder this time. Like a small fist against the
20:44wall of the world. I heard enough. Sarah, wait!
20:46Sarah, please. I hang up. I set the phone face down on the counter. I breathe in. I breathe
20:53out. Then I pick up my keys. West District. 23 minutes in traffic. I don't play music.
21:01I don't cry. My hands stay at 10 and 2. Building C. 11th floor. Unit 1101. I press the doorbell.
21:11I can hear movement inside. Quick footsteps. A door closing somewhere deeper in the apartment.
21:17A drawer being shut too hard. The peephole darkens. Then the lock turns.
21:26What are you doing here?
21:29Not Sarah. Not baby. Not come in. Just what are you doing here? Like I'm a stranger. Like
21:39Sarah, this isn't- Move!
21:40He fills the doorway with his shoulders. I see it then, under the fake calm. His jaw is
21:45locked. There is rage in him. Real rage. The kind he's never shown me in 5 years. I push
21:50past him. My belly grazes his arm. He flinches. Inside, the apartment is beautiful. Cream sofa.
21:57Marble coffee table. A vase of fresh peenies. Pink. Just opened, the petals still tight at the
22:02center. No shoes by the door but his. No coat on the rack. No bag. No book. No phone charger.
22:08No woman. The air smells like lemon cleaner. Sharp. Recent. Someone scrubbed this place
22:13inside the last hour. I walk into the bedroom. The bed is made with hotel precision. The closet
22:18is empty. The bathroom has one toothbrush. A new one. Dry. Still creased from the packaging.
22:24He followed her here. I can feel him in the hallway behind me, watching.
22:27Are you satisfied?
22:28They're good. They cleared her out fast. They cleared her out so fast they forgot what fast
22:33looks like. No dust disturbed. No marks in the carpet. Flowers cut this morning. In an apartment
22:37supposedly rented to a struggling cousin. A woman lives here. A pregnant woman lives
22:42here. Hair in the drain. A grocery list on the fridge. A sock under the bed. There is
22:48nothing. Which is the loudest thing of all. My eyes land on the trash can in the corner.
22:52Stainless steel. Lid down. Suspicious and full.
22:56Sarah. Don't.
22:58And underneath all of it. At the very bottom. Something pale. I crouch down. My knees protest.
23:04My belly makes it hard. I do it anyway. A tin. Empty. Prenatal milk powder. The label
23:09is in soft pink. Strawberry flavor. A brand I have never bought. And then. I remember.
23:14Three weeks ago. His caramel jacket on the back of the dining chair. A receipt in the inner
23:18pocket. I almost threw it out. On the back in his handwriting. Strawberry flavor next time.
23:22I asked him about it that night. He laughed. He said it was a note to himself about a dessert
23:26for a client dinner. He looked me in the eye when he said it. He kissed my forehead. He
23:31told me I worried too much. Strawberry flavor next time. For her. For the woman growing his
23:36son. I stand up. Slowly. I do not let him help me. He doesn't try. I turn to face him.
23:41Marcus is in the middle of the living room. His arms are crossed. He's done the calculation.
23:46He's decided which face to wear.
23:47It's not what you think.
23:49Don't.
23:49A friend left that here. Months ago. We don't even know who's it is.
23:52Don't.
23:54Strawberry flavor.
23:56Sarah.
23:57Next time. His face does something I have never seen it do before. A muscle in his jaw
24:02twitches. His eyes go flat. Not surprised. Not guilty. Calculating. You wrote it on the
24:07back of the receipt. Your handwriting. I asked you. You told me it was dessert.
24:12Put it down.
24:12She drinks strawberry. Hates strawberries. You know I hate strawberries.
24:16Put it down.
24:17Look at it.
24:21Don't scroll away. Click the video link to download Drama Box. Watch all episodes now.
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