It's secret confession week, and I've got a doozy.

Now, my ex-husband was big on getting his own way. If he could get away with it, he'd do it. If he could lie about it, he would. If he had a stray thought about butt-fucking his "true love" he told me about it. (I was not said true love) If he had an urge to fuck something and it held still long enough, he would.

Finally, I'd had just enough. Just enough of being talked down to, just enough insults, just enough abuse, that I stepped out.

I'm not proud of it, but I don't regret it one bit. Just one night, I wanted to feel like I was special. I wanted to feel loved, and like the person I was with was actually seeing ME and not the shadow of someone else.

I was on birth control, and, like a moron, neither of us worried about a condom, because we were, again, morons.

Though, if I'd had a condom, it might have looked like I was planning on doing that, and I hadn't been. In this case, "it just happened" was more than just a cliche.

But I didn't stop it, and if I had it to do over again, I still wouldn't stop. I'd do it all again, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

After it was done, we parted ways, and it was just a fond memory to me until I realized my period was late.

Clue the little voice going "I told you so", because that EPT flashed positive faster than Superman could leap a tall building.

I didn't tell the real father, I didn't even tell my now-ex-but-then-husband (here on out referred to as NEBTH because I'm lazy like that). The father was in no shape to handle the news of "you knocked up someone else's wife" and my ex-husband was out of town on business for the year, so I wasn't going to have to explain a baby bump away.

I started figuring out how to tell the NEBTH the truth, and how to get away without a huge fight that ended in my blood on walls and him arrested for a domestic.

I had seen him (NEBTH) and had sex with him a few weeks after I concieved, so I could have passed off the baby as his if I'd wanted, at least for the first year until the baby stopped being a 'baby' and turned into their own person.

(I like to think it says good things about me as a person that I did not realize that until a few years after the fact, mainly because I'd rather chew glass than tell that big of a lie. Soap opera diva I'm not.)

And, when I lost the baby, I'm not sure who I grieved for harder. Me, or the unknowing man who would have made a great dad if he'd known.