Lisa and I had agreed not to have children for nearly forty years. That was her choice. I loved her enough to go along with it, though secretly I longed for a child — the small joys of little hands, laughter in the car, building sandcastles. But I kept those dreams locked away.
Lisa often said, “Kids ruin everything — your career, your freedom, your peace.” So I stayed quiet. When she turned forty, she told me she was going through early menopause. That was the end of that conversation, and somehow, the light between us dimmed.
We lived under the same roof but grew distant. I tried to show my love — flowers, theater dates, gifts — but she withdrew. “I don’t feel beautiful. I’m tired. Not tonight.” We became strangers sleeping back to back. It hurt deeply, but I held onto hope that things might change.
Then, unexpectedly, she changed. She started wearing old dresses, wearing perfume I hadn’t smelled in years, humming to herself, even touching me like before. She whispered, “I miss us.” I wanted to believe it was real, that my patience had won her back, so I didn’t ask why she began going out so often, saying things like, “I’m meeting Anna” or “I’m going for a walk.”
She came home warm and tender, rekindling old nicknames and touches. I wanted to believe it was love, but now I realize it was guilt.
One night, I laid out a white dress, hoping to renew our vows like we once dreamed. When I told her, “I still believe in us,” she looked at me and softly said, “I’m pregnant.”
My hands dropped from her shoulders. Pregnant? How? Years ago, I’d had a vasectomy. Lisa didn’t know, and I never thought I’d need to explain.
I couldn’t sleep. The word “pregnant” echoed, tearing at something deep inside me. I wondered if the procedure had failed or if fate was playing a cruel joke.
The next evening, Lisa said she was meeting a friend. That’s when everything clicked — the late nights, strange cologne, her soft whispers — it wasn’t love, it was guilt. She had a lover.
I found her in a little café with a younger man named Lucas. When she told him she was pregnant, he responded coldly, reminding her he was infertile after an accident. He made it clear their time was just fun, nothing serious.
Lisa begged him to stay, claiming she loved him, not me. His answer? Get rid of the baby or he’d leave.
I sat frozen, heart broken, realizing I’d been a backup plan all along.
In the past, I would have comforted her. But that night, I felt nothing — no anger, no warmth — only a cold numbness. I pulled out a crumpled business card for a DNA clinic and decided to find the truth.
Lisa came home late, eyes red, and we agreed to do a DNA test. At the clinic, she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Afterward, she reached for my hand, but I pulled away. We waited in silence.
When the results came, I told her, “It’s mine.” She sobbed and reached for my hand again, but I kept my distance.
“I dreamed of this child, but you destroyed something else with your lies. You loved someone else, hid behind guilt, and called it love. I can’t live with that.”
She cried deeply. I told her, “You’ll be fine. The apartment is yours. I’ll support the baby however I can, but I can’t stay with someone who lied to me for years.”
I left, feeling broken and somehow healed at once.
