“I’m Pregnant”
I found Diego in the kitchen, coffee cooling in his hands, the early light catching the steam.
My fingers trembled around the two pink lines. “I’m pregnant,” I said, voice barely more than a whisper.
He set the mug down with a soft clink, eyes narrowing. “That’s impossible.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “The vasectomy… it’s not an instant fix. We need a post‑procedure semen test.”
His jaw tightened. “Who is the father?”
The words hit like ice. I stared at the floor, the tiles suddenly cold. “What are you saying?”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the test strip as if it were a lie written in ink. “You knew this could happen, didn’t you?”
I tried to steady my breath. “Diego, the doctors said… it can take months for the sperm to clear. We never got the clearance.”
He shook his head, the motion sudden, like a man trying to dislodge a stone. “I don’t know you anymore.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink, the smell of coffee turning sour. He turned, grabbing his jacket.
Diego Packs, and the Black Bags Arrive
He moved to the bedroom with the practiced efficiency of someone packing a life he’d already decided to leave.
Shirts folded, shoes slipped into a tote. My throat tightened as I watched the suitcase bulge, each item a silent accusation.
“Where are you going?” I asked, voice cracking.
He didn’t meet my eyes. “Paula’s apartment. I’m staying there.”
The word “Paula” struck me like a slap. The coworker who’d always lingered by the water cooler, whose laughter echoed through the office.
Just as the final zip of his bag clicked, the doorbell rang – a sharp, unexpected chime.
My mother‑in‑law stood on the porch, two black leather bags in her hands, her expression unreadable.
“I’m here to collect Diego’s things,” she said, voice flat, as she stepped inside.
She set the bags down on the floor with a thud that reverberated through the quiet apartment.
My mind raced – the pregnancy, the accusation, the sudden abandonment. I felt the weight of every breath, every heartbeat in my throat.
She opened the first bag, pulling out a folded shirt, a pair of shoes, a stack of papers. My eyes caught a slim, white envelope tucked beneath the receipts.
She hesitated, her fingers trembling as she lifted it, the seal unbroken, the name “Diego” handwritten across the front in his looping script.
The room seemed to close in, the air thick with the unsaid.
