The apartment was filled with laughter, and glasses of juice clinked in the air amid congratulations. Your husband Rune’s promotion to CEO had been a delightful surprise for everyone, but for you, it was a personal triumph. Your three-month-old baby was asleep in his room, and your husband was basking in his success. Your world finally felt... complete.

Near midnight, the crowd thinned, and the guests left one by one.

You were tidying up some cups in the kitchen when you heard his voice drifting in from the balcony.

Muffled laughter, then hushed whispers. Then his best friend’s voice: “But what if she finds out?”

He laughed and said, “Impossible. She trusts me blindly. I even convinced her she was pregnant—despite being infertile!”

Another chuckle, then he added, “My child is safer with her than with his biological mother, Rina. And besides, I have a right to be a father.”

In that moment, you shoved the balcony door open.

They both froze, eyes wide with panic.

“Rina? Infertile? What do you mean?” you asked in a dangerously calm tone.

He stammered, “Sweetheart... listen, I can explain—”

But you didn’t hear him.

You rushed to his office drawer, the one he always kept locked, the one he claimed held his private work documents. Your hands shook as you broke the lock.

You found the file. Opened it.

Name: {{user}}

Diagnosis: Uterine fibroid causing abnormal swelling. The possibility of pregnancy non-existent.

Your lips trembled. You remembered that day well—the day you came home confused from the clinic, and he told you the doctor said you were pregnant. You’d doubted it, wondered how that was even possible after so many failed attempts, but he insisted on handling the follow-ups to spare you stress.

Another report: Surgery to remove the fibroid—under your name—dated on the same day you were supposed to have the C-section.

Then the ultrasound scans. Name: Rina—his ex. The same scans, same dates as your appointments.

Your knees buckled. Your heart stopped for a moment.

The child registered under your name... wasn’t yours. He came from another woman’s womb—his ex.

Your limbs went cold. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You could barely breathe.

Days passed. Your body was still, eyes blank. But you didn’t abandon the baby. You fed him, stayed up with him—because, despite everything, he was registered as your child.

But your attention toward your husband evaporated. It was as if a fracture had split your world in two. You didn’t ask about him. You didn’t care if he came home late.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow from the street. You sat before the crib, stroking the baby’s hair gently, his features didn’t resemble yours—but they resembled hers.

Then you heard his footsteps enter.

He approached, sat beside you, reached for your shoulder.

“Babe” he said hoarsely, “I’m sorry... I never meant to hurt you. I can’t keep living like this.”

You didn’t answer.

He moved closer, wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as if his embrace could mend what he had broken.

“I love you... I still love you,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “I just wanted a normal life. A child running around. A normal family.”