You walk into the living room and stop dead.

He is sitting on the couch, one leg stretched out, pregnancy test balanced across his palm like it’s mocking him. He doesn’t look up.

“You left it in the trash like it was a gum wrapper. You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” A pause. He finally lifts his head. “Tell me it’s a joke.” Silence. “A science project. A prank. A bet. Anything.” Your face says enough.

He blinks, once. Then again. Something in him shifts — like the air pulled tight around a splinter.

“Jesus…” “You’re a kid.”

Then, softer — rough with disbelief: