When I saw the two lines on the test, I cried because I was happy.
I thought it was a miracle.
My hands were shaking as I ran to show Diego.
He was in the kitchen drinking coffee, looking as calm as if nothing in the world could touch him.
“I’m pregnant,” I told him.
He did not smile.
He did not hug me.
He did not ask if I felt okay.
He simply set his cup on the table and stared at me like I had brought something filthy into our home.
“That’s impossible.”
My throat tightened.
“What do you mean, impossible?”
Diego gave a cold laugh.
“I had a vasectomy two months ago, Laura. I’m not stupid.”
That word hit me like a slap.
Stupid.
That was what the man I had loved for eight years called me.
The same man who had said the surgery was “for us,” because money was tight, because we could “decide later.”
I reminded him the doctor had said it was not immediate.
That follow-up testing was necessary.
That pregnancy could still happen.
But Diego had already stopped listening.
His verdict was already written across his face.
“Who is he?” he asked.
I froze.
“What?”
“The father. Tell me who he is.”
I felt sick.
Not because of the baby.
Because of him.
That night, he packed a suitcase.
Not many clothes.
Just enough to let me know another place was already waiting.
“I’m going to Paola,” he said, without shame.
Paola.
His coworker.
The woman who used to text me for recipes.
The woman who once told me, “Lauri, your marriage is so beautiful.”
The woman who had apparently been waiting for a chance to take my place.
The next day, my mother-in-law arrived with two black bags.
Not to comfort me.
To collect Diego’s belongings.
“How shameful, Laura,” she said, looking at my stomach as if it were already evidence against me. “Diego didn’t deserve this.”
“I didn’t cheat on him.”
She gave me a pitying smile.
“They all say that.”
