I still remember the day my wife came home glowing and said, “I’m pregnant.” I felt pure joy. I pictured baby names, tiny socks, and a future that suddenly felt bigger and brighter.
A week later, we sat in the doctor’s office for her first prenatal appointment. I squeezed her hand, excited and nervous. Then the doctor smiled and said, “Congratulations on your second child.”
I laughed. “Second?”
He looked at the chart. “Her first pregnancy was three years ago. It’s in her medical history.”
I turned to my wife. Her face had gone pale. After a long, crushing silence, she whispered that she’d had a baby before we met and placed the child for adoption.
I was stunned—but it got worse.
Through tears, she admitted the father of that child was still in her life. And the baby she was carrying now… wasn’t mine.
The room felt suffocating. In seconds, everything I believed about our marriage collapsed. The future I’d imagined disappeared in that cold, bright office.
For the first time in five years, I realized I was sitting beside someone I didn’t truly know.
