The Pottery Class That Shattered My Life
I thought a pottery class was just a fun little way to pass the time while waiting for baby number two. Something harmless. A way to get out of the house and take my mind off swollen ankles, backaches, and constant cravings. My best friend Ava had been begging me to go out and do something. I gave in, thinking, Why not? What harm could painting a little mug do?
Turns out, it wasn’t the clay or the brushes that turned my world upside down. It was what I found out in that room—the moment that linked my husband to a secret so huge, it crushed everything I thought I knew.
I’m currently pregnant with our second baby. Everyone always says the second time around is more emotional. I used to think that was just one of those things moms say—like how you lose your brain during pregnancy or how spicy food brings on labor. But now I know… they were right.
And no, it wasn’t the hormones or the cravings or the extra pounds that made this pregnancy more emotional.
It was Malcolm. My husband.
Lately, all I wanted to do was curl up in my giant blanket, binge terrible reality TV, and snack on anything I could find. Growing a human is no joke, and I was exhausted 24/7. I had already accepted that I’d spend the next five weeks in stretchy pants with a snack bowl balanced on my belly.
But Ava? She had other plans.
“You need to get out of the house,” she said one afternoon, already halfway through making a strawberry milkshake in my kitchen.
I was on the couch, feet up, silently praying she’d drop the pep talk and just let me exist in peace.
“Why?” I groaned.
“Because you’re turning into a hermit, Liv. We used to have fun, remember?” she said, flashing her pleading smile just as the blender roared.
I rolled my eyes. “I think you’re confusing fun with exhaustion.”
Ignoring me completely, she kept going. “I heard about this cool pottery place. You can sign up for a pottery party. You either make something or paint it. Super chill.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And we’re doing this because…?”
“Because it’ll be fun! Come on, let’s paint something for the baby’s room. You need to get out of your head.”
She slid the milkshake across the counter with a wink.
I let out a sigh. “Fine. But you owe me. Whatever weird snack this baby wants after, it’s your job to get it.”
“Deal!” she said, grinning like she’d just won a prize. “Already told Malcolm he’s watching Tess tonight.”
That made me pause. Ava wasn’t exactly Malcolm’s biggest fan. She was polite, sure, but never warm. For her to have coordinated this with him… it felt off. But I shook it off. What was the worst that could happen at a pottery class?
We arrived at the studio and it was buzzing with energy. Laughter, chatting, paint splatters, clay smudges everywhere. About fifteen women were already there, each seated around big tables full of brushes, glazes, and half-decorated mugs.
Ava beamed. “See? Told you it’d be fun.”
I gave her a half-smile. “If you define ‘fun’ as loud, then yeah.”
We picked a table at the back—somewhere quieter—and got started. The first hour was actually kind of nice. People joked, painted, swapped stories. The topic shifted—like it always does when women gather—to babies. Everyone had a story. Some were hilarious. Some were borderline traumatic. All of them made me squirm a little, thinking about my upcoming delivery.
Then, a woman a few tables over, painting a mug with tiny daisies, started sharing.
“So, I was on a date with my boyfriend last summer,” she said casually. “We were watching a movie at my flat—on the 4th of July—when he suddenly gets this call. Said his sister-in-law went into labor.”
My brush froze mid-stroke.
“He said it was a family thing and he had to go—like right then. I thought it was weird. I mean, it was late, we were both exhausted, but he insisted.”
I felt a shift in the air. Ava had gone very still next to me. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.
The woman went on, completely unaware that she was cracking open something inside me.
“The baby was born that night,” she smiled. “A little girl. He told me her name. Tess.”
The paintbrush slipped from my hand and hit the table with a sharp clack.
Tess.
Born on the 4th of July.
That was my Tess.
Ava leaned in, whispering so low only I could hear. “Liv… is this some kind of joke?”
But it wasn’t. Every nerve in my body was screaming. This couldn’t be real—but deep down, I already knew it was.
The woman kept painting, chatting like nothing had happened. Then she laughed and said, “But Malcolm missed it! Can you imagine? He was with his niece being born and missed the birth of our son. Said he was babysitting and couldn’t leave.”
I felt everything inside me go cold.
Ava’s hand found mine under the table. “What are the odds?” she whispered.
But I wasn’t thinking about odds. I was putting pieces together—horrible, painful pieces—and the picture was becoming crystal clear.
I turned to the woman, heart hammering in my chest. “Wait… your boyfriend’s name is Malcolm?”
She looked surprised. “Yeah, why?”
I fumbled for my phone, hands shaking. I pulled up the screensaver: a photo of me, Malcolm, and Tess at the zoo. We were smiling. He had his arms around both of us.
I showed her the screen. “Is this him?”
She looked. Her face dropped. “Yeah… that’s him. Why?”
My voice broke as I said, “He’s my husband.”
Her eyes went wide. “Wait… your husband?” She looked at the screen again, then back at me. “But… he’s the father of my son.”
And just like that, my world collapsed.
The cheerful pottery party turned dead silent. Conversations stopped. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart and the echo of her words.
I felt like I was underwater. The room was spinning. I couldn’t breathe.
“Ava,” I whispered, clutching her arm. “Water. Please.”
She jumped up without hesitation. Her face was white. She knew.
Everyone else in the room tried to pretend they weren’t listening, but the tension was unbearable. I could feel their eyes. I didn’t belong here anymore—not in this room, not in this life I thought I had.
“I need to go,” I muttered, pushing myself up. My legs wobbled as I made my way out, tears blurring everything around me.
I found the bathroom, locked the door, and gripped the sink like it was the only thing holding me up.
He cheated on me. He has another kid.
I splashed water on my face, hoping it would wake me up from this nightmare.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on the couch staring into nothing, one hand on my belly, the other holding my phone.
I had to confront Malcolm. I couldn’t bring another baby into this storm without knowing the truth.
When I asked him, he didn’t even deny it. He admitted to everything. The affair. The baby. The lies. The Fourth of July.
And that was it. Our marriage? Shattered. Like a vase dropped from the tallest shelf. A million tiny pieces I could never put back together.
Now, I sit on my couch eating chocolate and looking up divorce lawyers on my laptop.
This isn’t the life I dreamed of for my children—a broken home, a betrayal too big to hide. But how could I stay with a man who missed our daughter’s birth to be with another woman? How could I share my life with someone who created another life behind my back?
My children now have a half-sibling. A child born from their father’s secret. That truth sits heavy in my chest.
But I know what I have to do.
I can’t fix the past, but I can build something better from here—a home with love, honesty, and peace. My kids deserve at least that.
As Ava helped me into the car that night, I looked at her and said softly, “This is it, Ava. I’m done with him.”
And I meant every word.
