I was in a rut. My marriage to Michael had become a series of quiet mornings and distant evenings. We’d once shared spontaneous trips and late-night conversations, but now, the empty vase on the kitchen counter was the only reminder of what we’d lost.

One afternoon, I bumped into my college friend, Vivian, who was full of energy and life. She offered me a spontaneous trip to Spain, and though I hesitated, something in me longed for a break. “Just one week,” she urged, “to feel alive again.”

In Spain, everything felt vibrant. Vivian pushed me out of my comfort zone, suggesting I buy a bright scarf and visit colorful markets. Then, unexpectedly, I ran into my ex, Jake. After a few laughs, he invited me to dinner, and though I felt guilty, I went. Vivian encouraged me, telling me to “live a little.”

That night, Jake kissed me, and for a brief moment, I let myself indulge in the past. But guilt quickly overtook me, and I rushed away to tell Vivian everything. But when I returned to our hotel, I found her packing. She revealed she’d sent Michael a photo of Jake and me.

Devastated, I returned home to face Michael on his birthday. I feared the worst, but when I met him at our old restaurant, he confessed he’d figured it all out. He had fired Vivian and promised to make things right. And then he handed me a gift—a bracelet, and news that would change everything: “I’m pregnant.”