My wife left me with our newborn—no warning, just a tiny note. I raised our baby alone. A year later, she came back, acting like nothing had happened.
I always wanted a family. Not just a formality or a name on a marriage certificate, but a real family—one filled with morning cuddles, silly inside jokes, and traditions we would create together.
When I met Anna, I knew she was the one. She was a little mysterious, sometimes distant, but that never scared me. If anything, it drew me in.
She had that way of tilting her head when she listened, as if she were memorizing every word. And when she laughed—it was like the world stood still for a second.
But then, something changed.
At first, it was subtle. She started pulling away in ways I couldn’t quite name. A little less conversation at dinner. Late nights at work that stretched into early mornings.
“You okay?” I asked one evening when she came home, slipping off her heels with a tired sigh. “You seem… distracted.”
“I’m fine, Danny. Just tired.”Then, one night, she sat on the edge of our bed, her hands gripping a small plastic stick. I saw the faint tremble in her fingers before she turned it toward me.
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Two pink lines.
“Anna…” I whispered, my brain barely catching up. “You’re pregnant?”