Lisa and I spent nearly forty years childfree — her choice, not mine. I loved her deeply, so I agreed. She once said, “Kids ruin everything,” and when she hit forty, she told me she had early menopause. That closed the chapter quietly. I buried my dream of hearing laughter in our home, of tiny hands holding mine.

Years passed. The love between us dulled. I brought her flowers, planned trips, tried everything. Nothing worked. Then one day, she lit up again — old dresses, perfume, laughter. She kissed me like she hadn’t in years. I thought we’d found our way back. I was wrong.

One night, I laid out a white dress and asked her to renew our vows. She smiled softly — then whispered, “I’m pregnant.” The word shattered me. I’d had a vasectomy years ago. She didn’t know. I said nothing, but suspicion brewed. The scent of cologne that wasn’t mine. The sudden warmth. The nights away. Guilt wore the mask of affection.

I followed her one evening. In a café, she sat with a younger man. “I’m pregnant,” she told him. He laughed coldly — “I’m infertile.” She begged. He walked away. I stayed hidden, my heart breaking quietly.

At home, I told her we were doing a DNA test. When the results came, it said: the baby was mine. She wept with relief. I didn’t. “You gave me my dream,” I said, “but killed the trust we built it on.”

I left that night, broken — but for the first time in years, finally honest with myself.