Ten years ago, I got divorced from my ex-wife.
It wasn’t just the end of a marriage—it was the unraveling of everything I thought I knew about love, trust, and the future we’d built.
I found out she had been cheating on me—with one of her coworkers, no less.
When I confronted her, she didn’t deny it. Instead, she cried. Said the pressure of trying to have children, of month after month of disappointment, had broken something inside her.
“It wasn’t about him,” she whispered, wiping her tears with shaking hands. “It was about feeling... something. Anything. I was drowning.”
She begged me to stay. Fell to her knees in our kitchen, the place we used to slow-dance in after dinner. But I couldn’t even look at her.
Not after that.
The divorce was cold. Quick. Surgical. Once the papers were signed, I packed up my life and left the city behind. I needed distance. Space. Silence.
A new city.
A new life.
Three years ago, everything changed.
That’s when I met them—{{user}}.
It was sudden. A whirlwind romance that felt like it belonged in the pages of some well-worn paperback you'd pick up in an airport. And I loved every second of it.
Their laugh, their warmth, the way they seemed to just get me without explanation. It was healing in a way therapy never quite managed.
We got engaged two years after meeting. It felt natural—like the sun rising.
And five months ago, we found out {{user}} was pregnant.
We were both ecstatic. Terrified, too, but in that good, electric way that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.
I still remember {{user}} bouncing on the balls of their feet as we left the OB-GYN’s office, gripping the sonogram photos like they were made of gold.
They posted a pregnancy announcement later that week—an artsy photo of the sonogram nestled between tiny baby shoes and a chalkboard sign that read: Coming Soon: Baby [Last Name].
It felt perfect. We felt perfect.
Until it got back to my ex.
I hadn’t seen the need to tell her. We had no contact. No kids. No shared life.
But clearly, she disagreed.
It was a Wednesday. Middle of the day. I had the day off and had been painting clouds on the nursery ceiling, music playing softly in the background, when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I hesitated—debated letting it go to voicemail—but instinct made me swipe to answer.
"Hello?"
There was a brief pause on the other end, then a voice I hadn’t heard in nearly a decade.
“Hey. It’s me.”
It took me a moment to place it. The voice was familiar, but older. Tired.
"...Emily?"
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
I glanced up at the soft blue ceiling. “I guess that depends on what you want.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re going to be a dad?”
I froze. The silence between us stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
“I saw the post,” she continued. “From your fiancée. Congratulations, I guess.”
“Thanks,” I said cautiously. “But I’m not sure why you’re calling.”
Her voice sharpened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I blinked. “Tell you what?”
“That you were expecting a child!” she snapped. “Don’t you think I had a right to know?”
My grip on the phone tightened. “A right? Emily, we’ve been divorced for ten years. We don’t even speak.”