The words hit me like a truck.
For a second, I genuinely thought I might collapse.
I had to grip the back of a chair just to stay standing.
But somehow, I forced a smile.
Inside, though?
Everything was falling apart.
Because Stephanie had no idea I couldn’t have children.
Which meant only one thing.
If she was pregnant…
That baby wasn’t mine.
Still, I hugged her.
“I’m so happy,” I lied softly.
And then, before she could notice the panic in my eyes, I added:
“We should celebrate. Let’s throw a huge party.”
She laughed and kissed me, completely unaware that my heart was breaking in real time.
But there was one detail I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Ten weeks.
That was how far along she claimed to be.
And exactly ten weeks earlier, our relationship had exploded.
We’d had the worst fight of our lives.
It started over my changing work schedule, but quickly turned into something deeper — resentment, frustration, all the things we’d ignored for too long.
“You never tell me anything important!” she shouted.
“You’re overreacting,” I snapped back.
Wrong answer.
Stephanie ripped off her engagement ring and threw it across the room.
Then she packed a bag.
Before slamming the door behind her, she yelled:
“Don’t call me again!”
And for nearly two months…
We didn’t speak.
No texts.
