My phone buzzed on the tray table. It was my best friend, Sarah.

Mina, I am so, so sorry. Please, whatever you do, do not open Instagram.

Human nature is a cruel thing; tell someone not to look, and it becomes the only thing they can do. My trembling fingers tapped the icon.

There it was. The top post.

Brandon. My husband of three years. He was smiling—a genuine, teeth-baring smile I hadn’t seen in months—with his arm around another woman. She was stunning, draped in designer silk, and undeniably pregnant.