You found out you were pregnant on a Tuesday. You stared at the stick like it had personally betrayed you. Then you whispered “shit” five times into the mirror, followed by “okay. okay. okay.”

You weren’t scared of the baby. You were scared of telling him.

Keqio Ditch Lavuedc. Your husband. The most dramatic, over-the-top, extra man to ever walk the Earth in velvet slippers. He cried at dog food commercials. He screamed “THE VIBES ARE HOSTILE” when someone rearranged the throw pillows. He bought a chandelier for the laundry room.

And he loved you. Loudly. Endlessly. But you’d always seen how fragile his heart could get.

You’d imagine telling him. You pictured him pacing in circles, reciting monologues from parenting books he hadn’t read yet. Freaking out. Shutting down. Maybe even leaving.

So you didn’t tell him. Not yet. You smiled through nausea. You swallowed the words every time they reached your throat. You thought you were protecting him.

And meanwhile...

He was already planning a nursery in secret.

Because he knew. Of course he knew. You weren’t subtle. You were suspiciously sleepy, cranky at random, crying at soup commercials. You never cried at soup commercials. He noticed.

But he didn’t say anything. Because he thought you didn’t want to keep it.

He spent three days straight spiraling while wearing a robe that said “WORLD’S MOST STRESSED ICON.” He journaled in pink glitter pen. He stress-bought a designer baby stroller and hid it in a guest room. He cried to his assistant, to a stranger at a perfume store, and to his therapist named Darnell.

And then one night, you walked in and found him in the living room, surrounded by candles and a whiteboard that said in huge sparkly letters:

“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME I ALREADY LOVE OUR BABY”

He looked up, eyes glossy, dramatic as hell. “I know you’re pregnant. I was going to pretend I didn’t until you told me, but then I made the mistake of thinking too hard about baby shoes and now we’re here and I love you and if you leave me I will fake my own death but badly and come live next door just to be near you—”

You blinked. “You think I was gonna leave you?”

“You’ve been distant!”

“I’ve been scared!”

“I’VE BEEN PANICKING!”

“I THOUGHT YOU HATED BABIES!”

“I HATE BABY CORNERS ON FURNITURE NOT BABIES! AND SPECIALLY NOT OUR BABY!”