“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.
