When I walked into our guest room and saw my husband putting together a crib, he assured me it was “just temporary,” meant as a way to hold on to hope. But the following weekend, when I returned from visiting my mom, a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom trash stopped me cold—and I knew it couldn’t be mine.
I had been sitting on the edge of the bathtub earlier that week, staring at yet another negative test. One faint line. After years of trying, countless appointments, costly treatments, and endless emotional strain, the result was always the same—empty.
My heart felt like it was folding in on itself. We’d invested so much—money, time, tears—and yet it still led to nothing. Maybe motherhood just wasn’t meant for me.
I dropped the test in the trash, splashed cold water on my face, and forced myself to take deep, steady breaths. I didn’t want Dan seeing me break apart again.
When I looked in the mirror, my reflection betrayed me—tired eyes, shadows that no amount of makeup could disguise.
I stopped in the guest room doorway, where Dan was tightening the last screw on a small, pale wooden crib. Sunlight from the window caught its smooth frame, making it seem ready for the baby we didn’t have. My chest constricted.
“Why is this in here?” I asked.
Dan glanced up, his smile soft. “It’s just for now. I thought maybe it would help us keep the dream alive.”
“You think I need a constant reminder that I’ve failed?”
“That’s not it,” he said quickly. “I thought it might help us visualize what we’re working toward—not what we’re missing. But if it hurts, I’ll take it down.”
I let out a long sigh, and he stepped forward, wrapping me in his arms.
“Why don’t you spend the weekend at your mom’s? I’ll take it down before you come back.”
My mom’s place was warm and free of painful questions, so by Friday, I was on my way.
That weekend felt like a balm I didn’t know I needed.
Mom made my favorite soup, sat beside me while we watched old movies, and never once brought up fertility treatments. I slept more peacefully than I had in months.
When I got home Sunday night, the guest room was bare again. The crib was gone. Dan met me at the door, his smile easy and warm.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded faintly. “Yeah. I’ll shower before dinner.”
In the bathroom, as I reached for a towel, something in the trash caught my eye. My breath froze in my chest. A pregnancy test—two bold pink lines. My heart thudded painfully.
Could it be mine? Did I misread my last test?
I grabbed a fresh test and took it right there. A few agonizing minutes later, one pale line appeared. Negative. My stomach dropped. That test wasn’t mine.
I walked out holding it. “What’s this?”
Dan’s eyes widened. “Are you pregnant?”
“No. I just tested—negative. Whose is it?”
“Maybe it’s faulty?”
“Faulty tests don’t make two perfect lines. Did you get someone else pregnant?”
“Never,” he said firmly. “I love you. I’d never do that.”
But there was something in his face I couldn’t read. My hands trembled. I didn’t push further then, but the weight of it clung to me.
Days later, when Dan said he’d be home late, I waited until he left before following him. I stayed far enough back as he drove into the city. He parked near his office, checked his phone, and waited.
Then a blonde woman appeared, a tote bag swinging from her shoulder.
Who is she?
Dan’s expression softened as he opened the car door for her. My grip on the steering wheel turned my knuckles white.
They drove to a baby store. I trailed behind them, keeping my distance as they strolled through the aisles, laughing over tiny outfits, touching soft blankets, filling a cart with bottles and pacifiers.
At checkout, Dan paid while she leaned casually against the counter, smiling.
I slipped out to the parking lot and waited. Soon they emerged, Dan carrying most of the bags, glancing around like he was making sure no one saw them.
I followed them to a small house in a quiet neighborhood. Security cameras blinked from the roof corners. Dan took the bags inside, then hugged her before leaving.
I marched to the door.
When she opened it, I demanded, “What are you doing with my husband? Are you pregnant with his child?”
Her eyes went cold. “Please leave.”
“I’m not leaving without answers.”
“Leave now, or I’ll call the police.” She shut the door.
That night, I told Dan he was sleeping on the couch and that in the morning, I’d take him somewhere.
“Where?” he asked, his voice edged with unease.
“You’ll see,” I said tightly, locking myself in the bedroom afterward.
The next morning, we drove in silence. When we arrived, the house looked empty. A “For Sale” sign stood in the yard.
“What am I looking at?” Dan asked. “If you want a different house, we can find something nicer.”
“You were here yesterday with a blonde woman, carrying baby supplies inside.”
“I was at work until after five. This place hasn’t been lived in for months. Maybe… everything we’ve been through is making you imagine things.”
His pity felt like a slap. “I know what I saw.”
Dan checked his watch. “I’m late.” He called a cab and left.
I pushed the door—it was unlocked. Inside, staged furniture sat in perfect, unused order. No sign of life.
In the entryway, a small notebook for visitors rested on a table. A sheet had been torn out, leaving grooves in the page beneath. I shaded over it with a pencil until an address emerged.
Within minutes, I was driving again.
The second house stood at the end of a quiet street, surrounded by more cameras. I rang the bell. No answer. I turned the handle—it opened.
Voices drifted from the living room.
There they were—Dan and the blonde woman, talking urgently. They froze when they saw me.
“Going to tell me I’m imagining this too?!” I shouted.
“Please, let me explain,” Dan began.
“I gave you that chance—you lied!”
“It’s complicated,” he said.
“You know what’s complicated? Hoping every month, seeing negative results, then finding out your husband’s with a pregnant woman!”
The woman edged back, arms crossed protectively over her stomach.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I told her.
“Some people don’t care about that,” she murmured.
Dan spoke up. “Her name’s Lila. She’s an old friend. She’s escaping an abusive husband. I’m helping her stay safe. The cameras are for protection.”
“And you didn’t tell me because…?”
“I didn’t want to cause you more pain. I thought seeing me with a pregnant woman would destroy you.”
“I could’ve helped her—I’m a lawyer. But you didn’t give me the chance.”
Before he could respond, nausea hit me hard. I barely made it to the bathroom.
Lila followed with water and something small in her palm.
“I’m sorry for the confusion. I didn’t feel safe enough to tell you yesterday.” She placed a pregnancy test on the counter.
“It may be nothing,” she said gently, “but maybe not.”
I laughed nervously. “We’ve tried for so long. This can’t be it.”
She didn’t argue. “Try anyway.”
Minutes later, two bright pink lines stared back at me. My eyes blurred. I walked into the living room and handed the test to Dan.
“Look.”
His face broke into a stunned, joyful smile. He pulled me close, laughing through tears.
“We’re going to be parents.”
I met his eyes. “No more lies. Ever.”
“Ever,” he promised.