This is Part 2 of her story. You can read Part 1 here .

My husband walked back into our family with the baby that blew our marriage apart, and I held the door open.

It had been eight excruciating months since my husband told me about his affair with a work colleague and the resulting pregnancy. He spent most of that time in the US, present for the birth of his son and supporting his lover during the sleepless newborn weeks.

I was at home trying to remember how to breathe. His absence triggered unwanted tears at the most inconvenient times, waves of ultraviolet rage and a newfound obsession with never letting my phone leave my hand in case I missed a text or call.

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I like to fix things, to tick boxes and close loops.

So, drawing out the end of our marriage and slowly detangling our lives together, was the worst kind of torture I could imagine.

I was at home with our two young daughters, doing my best to keep them fed and clean. I would force a smile as they sang daycare rhymes or proudly showed me their latest art creation.

Another crack spiralled across my heart every time they said they "missed Daddy" and asked when he was coming home. How dare he leave me to look into their little faces and pretend everything was okay. I could picture him on the other side of the world, breathing in that intoxicating new baby smell.

In those early months, I chose not to tell anyone, except my therapist, what was happening.

I had no logical reason for staying silent. I had an incredible network of friends, near and far, any one of whom would have rushed over, wrapped me in a hug and given me space to sink into my misery before rallying me with wine, Alanis Morissette and reminders of my worth. My family was in another country, and this didn't feel like news I could deliver over the phone.

So I did it alone.

I carried the anger at my husband, plus the shame, the confusion and the fear. My therapist helped me get out of bed most days. I felt like a used silk dress, crumpled and draped over the clothes horse of my life.

My daughters and my team at work were the only things holding me up as I floated through the days, trying desperately not to blow away.

My husband and I spoke often while he was away. Some calls were short and practical, focused on bills and childcare and the best plumber. Others were long and draining, as I sobbed, raged and demanded details of his affair — and his new life — while he played family with another woman.

It was during one of the tightrope logistical calls that he dropped another grenade.

He was coming home, but not alone. The baby he shared with another woman was coming too.

My husband asked if the baby could stay at our house for a few weeks while his mother explored the possibility of moving abroad.

Even now, as I write this, I find myself judging what happened next.

Somehow, I agreed.

I told myself my husband needed to come back so we could finally decide what happened next, and so he could see his daughters in person. He assured me I would have no responsibility for the baby: no feeding, no nappies, no night wake-ups. His youngest sister would come to help, and in his culture, this arrangement would be accepted without questions or complaints.

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They arrived home on Mother's Day. I woke to breakfast in bed from my girls and an excuse to shed a few more tears as I read their homemade cards.

Then my husband pulled into the driveway, a friend dropping them off from the airport.

The house filled with the girls' screams of excitement as they rushed to greet their dad, while my body felt like it was filled with cold concrete. I plastered on something resembling a smile and opened the door.

I adore babies. But this one was different. I saw his chubby cheeks and wide eyes as my husband lifted him out of the car. He looked sleepy and bewildered, and I suddenly had no idea what to do.

My instinct was to bundle him into my arms, feel his soft skin against mine and protect him. He didn't deserve my anger or the sick feeling in my stomach when I thought about how he came to be here. None of this was his fault. But for me, he would always be the physical representation of my husband's betrayal.

In that moment, I made a choice. I heard the joy in my daughters' voices as they climbed all over their dad, desperate for his attention. I saw my husband as more than a liar and a cheat, but as a man trying — clumsily, imperfectly — to be the best father he could be to all of his children.

I pushed my feelings to the side, just for a second, and reached out to bring this new baby into our home.

*The author of this article is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

Feature Image: Getty. (Stock image for illustrative purposes).