My heart pounded as I stepped inside. The house felt tense, like it was holding its breath. Jake stood in the living room, pacing back and forth, his jaw clenched, his face flushed with anger and pain.
“Tell me the test wasn’t yours!” he shouted the moment he saw me. His voice cracked on the last word.
I closed the door behind me slowly and set my bag down. I didn’t yell back. I didn’t cry. Something inside me went calm, steady, like the center of a storm.
“It is mine, honey,” I said softly.
His hands curled into fists. “Then who?” he demanded. “Who is he, Emma?”
“There is no one else,” I said, meeting his eyes. “There never has been.”
He laughed bitterly. “Do you expect me to believe that? The doctors said—”
“I know what the doctors said,” I interrupted gently. “And if you want a divorce, I won’t stop you.”
That made him freeze.
“But before you walk away from us,” I continued, my voice trembling despite my effort to stay composed, “there’s something you need to know. This baby is yours. You’re going to be a father.”
The words hung between us, fragile and heavy.
Jake stared at me like I’d spoken another language. Confusion flickered across his face, followed by disbelief.
“That’s not funny,” he whispered.
“I would never joke about this,” I said. “The doctors were wrong—or at least, not entirely right. You have oligospermia. Low sperm count. Not zero. It doesn’t mean you can’t have children.”
Silence filled the room.
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