I clutched my appointment slip, heart heavy as I waited in the women’s health clinic. My stomach knotted with nervous excitement—this appointment felt like a fresh start.
Then I heard a voice I never wanted to hear again:
“Look who decided to get tested.”
I froze. My ex‑husband, Chris, stood there, sneering. “My new wife already gave me two kids—something you couldn’t do for ten years!” He introduced his heavily pregnant wife, Liza. His smug smile hit me like a blow.
We’d married straight out of high school—wildly in love, I thought. But soon, I realized he wanted a housekeeper who’d produce babies, not a partner. Every test result became ammunition. When I finally signed the divorce papers, I felt free—like I could finally breathe.
Now, Chris was back, trying to humiliate me again. But before I lost my composure, my new husband, Josh, appeared: calm, confident, protective. When I introduced them, Chris’s bravado collapsed—especially after I revealed I’d been told I was perfectly healthy. His face drained of color.
He stammered, pointing to Liza’s belly, confused and enraged. I left the clinic with Josh, ignoring them both.
Three weeks later, Chris’s mother called, screaming that he’d learned he’d fathered none of Liza’s babies—and that she’d been dumped. Calmly, I replied: “If he’d gotten tested sooner, none of this would have happened—you might say karma finally caught up.”
I blocked her. Surrounded by tiny clothes in our nursery, I laughed through tears. My baby was coming—and this time, there were no doubts.