One afternoon at work, I was half-distracted when Nico, the office delivery guy, handed me a pink bakery box. Confused, I opened it, expecting a sweet surprise from my husband, Jake, a baker. Instead, inside was a cake with messy black frosting spelling:
Beside it lay a positive pregnancy test I’d accidentally left out that morning.
Panic hit me. Jake had always believed he was infertile—would he really think I’d betrayed him? I rushed home, only to find him pacing, furious.
“Tell me that test isn’t yours!” he demanded.
“It is,” I admitted, “but the baby is yours, Jake. The doctors were wrong—you have low sperm count, not complete infertility. It was never impossible.”
His anger collapsed into tears. “I thought you’d cheated… I thought I couldn’t give you a family.”
I held him as the weight of years lifted. This wasn’t how I dreamed of sharing the news, but despite the chaos, we finally had what we longed for: hope, a future, a baby.