For forty years, Lisa and I agreed: no kids. It was her choice, and I loved her enough to accept it, though secretly, I dreamed of a child. When she told me she was going through early menopause, I believed it was the end of that dream. Our marriage grew cold—her turning away, me holding onto hope. Then suddenly, she softened, rekindling old warmth. But I sensed something was off.
One night, she whispered she was pregnant. I was stunned. Years ago, I’d had a vasectomy—how could this be? Suspicion gnawed at me. Her strange perfume, secret outings, and soft kisses no longer felt like love but guilt.
I followed her to a café and found her with another man. She told him she was pregnant. He was infertile and wanted her to get rid of the baby. She confessed she hadn’t chosen between us—she needed to see who would stay. My heart shattered. I realized my wife’s betrayal had been hidden beneath layers of lies. We did a DNA test. The result stunned us both: the baby was mine.
I wanted to believe this could heal us. But how could I live with the years of lies? I told Lisa she could keep the apartment and I’d support the child—but I couldn’t stay. I walked away that night, broken yet strangely free, holding onto a dream born from betrayal.