Bigamy

On our wedding night, my husband announced that he wanted to have a baby with his old teacher’s daughter.

When I confronted him, he turned it around on me.

“Mrs. Brennan is dying, and all she wants is to hold a grandchild. Lucy and I are just doing IVF—it’s not like anything’s actually going to happen!”

“Besides, she was your teacher too. You can’t even grant her that one last wish?”

The next day, I took a fruit basket to the hospital to visit Mrs. Brennan—and turned a corner just in time to see my husband kissing Lucy in the hallway.

It hit me like a bolt of lightning. I turned around and walked away.

That night, he texted me: Taking Lucy to Vegas for the IVF. Push your hometown party back a few days.

I didn’t answer. I drove home to Maine alone and went door to door apologizing to my relatives.

Then I found a lawyer. “I want a divorce. And I want to charge him with bigamy.”

Chapter One

Ethan never showed up to the hometown reception.

We’d had the wedding in Boston. But I’m from Millbrook, a little town in Maine, and a lot of my older relatives couldn’t make a drive that long.

So we’d agreed six months earlier: on the third day after the wedding, we’d go back and throw a second reception in the church hall in town, so the groom could raise a glass to the old folks in person.

In a town like ours, when somebody’s daughter gets married, everyone knows. A groom who doesn’t even bother to show his face is a slap in the face to the bride’s entire family, in front of everyone—the kind of thing relatives will whisper about for years.

I’d stressed this to Ethan more times than I could count before the wedding. He’d sworn up and down he’d never miss it.

And now…

My parents looked like they’d aged years overnight. Shoulders hunched, they went from table to table explaining.

“We’re so sorry. Something urgent came up for our son-in-law and he just couldn’t get away. Next time he’s back, he’ll come around and apologize to you in person, we promise.”

The relatives didn’t look happy, but seeing how earnestly my parents were apologizing, they all said they understood.

Only my uncles—my mom’s brothers—were angry enough to pound the table.

“That boy! What could possibly be more important than today? Can’t even tell what matters and what doesn’t—guess all that fancy PhD was a waste!”

“Come on, we’re driving down to Boston right now! I want to ask him to his face what he thinks our Cindy is!”

The more they talked, the angrier they got, slamming the table till it rattled.

My youngest uncle, his face like iron, grabbed his car keys and headed for the door.

I hurried to stop him.

“Uncle, don’t. There’s no point.”

Just a minute ago, I’d scrolled past an Instagram post from Lucy.

The photo showed two clasped hands, each wearing a new ring on the ring finger. In the background was the pink sign of a little wedding chapel in Las Vegas.

The caption was a single line:

For Mom’s last wish. Praying for a miracle.

On the man’s wrist was the watch I’d given Ethan last year.

Ethan had commented underneath:

Sending hugs. I’m always here.

Lucy was all he could see right now. He had no room left for me.

You can drag a man somewhere by the arm, but you can’t drag his heart along with him.

Even if my uncles hauled him back by force, it wouldn’t look any better than him not coming at all.

For the next two full days, my parents and I drove around and visited every relative we hadn’t had a chance to explain things to.

My parents, who’d been honest, decent people their whole lives, sat in the car wiping their eyes. “Lord knows what we did in a past life to deserve this at our age.”

My own eyes stung.

I sent Ethan two texts: The reception’s over. Everyone’s upset. My parents can barely hold their heads up in town.

If you come now, you can still salvage some of it.

Nothing. Not a word, all night long.

I didn’t sleep a wink. I gripped my phone so hard my nails nearly snapped.

Ethan, you can hurt me all you want. But you had no right to humiliate my parents, who treated you like their own son.

First thing the next morning, I drove back to Boston, went straight to a law firm, and asked for the most famous divorce attorney in the city—Ms. Harper.

When I’d laid out my situation, I slid the Instagram screenshot across the desk.

“I want a divorce, and I want him to walk away with nothing.”

“And if he really did marry her in Vegas, I want to charge him with bigamy.”

Ms. Harper didn’t seem the least bit surprised. She’d handled so many divorces she’d seen every kind of insanity there was.

“Ms. Winters, an affair and a baby don’t amount to bigamy under the law. To bring a bigamy charge, we’d have to prove he married someone else while his marriage to you was still in effect.”

“A photo of a ring isn’t enough. But marriage records in Nevada are public. I’ll have someone look into it today.”

Just then, I got a video call from Lucy.

I picked up. She was in a hospital hallway, blinking her big damp eyes, practically glowing with triumph.

“Cindy, it worked! I’m pregnant with Ethan’s baby!”