When I saw the two lines on the test, I cried because I was happy.
I thought it was a miracle.
My hands were shaking as I ran to show Diego.
He was in the kitchen drinking coffee, looking as calm as if nothing in the world could touch him.
“I’m pregnant,” I told him.
He did not smile.
He did not hug me.
He did not ask if I felt okay.
He simply set his cup on the table and stared at me like I had brought something filthy into our home.
“That’s impossible.”
My throat tightened.
“What do you mean, impossible?”
Diego gave a cold laugh.
“I had a vasectomy two months ago, Laura. I’m not stupid.”
That word hit me like a slap.
Stupid.
That was what the man I had loved for eight years called me.
The same man who had said the surgery was “for us,” because money was tight, because we could “decide later.”
I reminded him the doctor had said it was not immediate.
That follow-up testing was necessary.
That pregnancy could still happen.
But Diego had already stopped listening.
His verdict was already written across his face.
“Who is he?” he asked.
I froze.
“What?”
“The father. Tell me who he is.”
I felt sick.
Not because of the baby.
Because of him.
That night, he packed a suitcase.
Not many clothes.
Just enough to let me know another place was already waiting.
“I’m going to Paola,” he said, without shame.
Paola.
