I reminded him—
The doctor had said to wait.
That it wasn’t immediate.
That there was still a chance.
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
He had already decided.
“Who is it?” he asked.
I froze.
“The father,” he said. “Tell me who it is.”
I felt sick.
Not because of the pregnancy.
Because of him.
That same night, he packed a bag.
Not everything.
Just enough to make it clear—he already had somewhere else to go.
“I’m staying with Paola,” he said.
Paola.
His coworker.
The one who used to text me for recipes.
The one who told me how lucky I was.
The one who had clearly been waiting for this moment.
The next day, his mother showed up.
Not to help me.
To collect his things.
“How embarrassing, Laura,” she said, looking at my stomach with quiet disgust. “My son didn’t deserve this.”
“I didn’t cheat.”
She smiled like she’d heard it all before.
“They all say that.”
Within days, the story spread.
Neighbors whispered.
People stared.
The unfaithful wife.
The woman who got pregnant after her husband’s surgery.
Diego didn’t stay quiet either.
He posted a photo with Paola at a restaurant.
Her hand on his arm.
A caption that made my chest collapse:
“Sometimes losing a lie brings you peace.”
I read it in the bathroom, shaking, barely able to breathe.
There was no peace.
Only fear.
Fear of losing everything.
Fear of raising a child alone.
Fear that my baby would carry the name of a man who already hated him.
Two weeks later, Diego asked to meet.
He didn’t come alone.
Paola was with him.
And so was a folder.
“I want this done quickly,” he said. “Divorce. And a DNA test when the baby is born.
