Which left only one possible conclusion.
If she was pregnant…
That baby wasn’t mine.
Even so, I pulled her close.
“I’m so happy,” I said softly.
And before she could notice anything strange in my eyes, I added:
“We should celebrate. Let’s throw a big party.”
She laughed and kissed me, unaware that my heart was silently breaking.
But one detail kept haunting me.
Ten weeks.
That was how far along she said she was in her pregnancy.
And exactly ten weeks earlier, our relationship had completely fallen apart.
We’d had the worst argument we’d had in three years together. It started with my change in work schedule, but something deeper soon surfaced: resentment, distance, everything we’d ignored for far too long.
“You never tell me anything important!” she yelled.
“You’re exaggerating,” I replied.
Wrong answer.
Stephanie took off her engagement ring and threw it across the room.
Then she packed a suitcase.
Before slamming the door, she said:
“Don’t call me again!”
And for almost two months…
We didn’t speak.
Not a single text.
Not a single call.
Nothing.
Suddenly, she came back.
She said she’d missed me. That she wanted to fix things.
And because I loved her, I said yes.
But now she was in our kitchen telling me she was ten weeks pregnant.
The dates didn’t add up.
That night, while Stephanie slept beside me, I stared at the ceiling for hours.
I tried to convince myself there was some explanation I was missing.
Maybe I was misunderstanding everything.
But the doubt only grew until, finally, I did something I never thought I was capable of.
