The Baby Wasn’t Mine—And My Wife Waited Until the Delivery Room to Tell Me (2 of 3)

I froze. “What? What do you mean? I’m supposed to be there with you.”

Her grip tightened, her eyes full of tears. “Please. Just wait.”

Before I could argue, the doors swung shut, and she was gone. I was left in the sterile hallway, pacing under the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of disinfectant and burnt coffee making me nauseous. Each minute dragged like an hour. I could hear muffled voices, the occasional beeping of machines, but no one told me anything.

Finally, the door opened. The doctor walked out, mask pulled down, his face heavy in a way that sent a chill through me.

“Congratulations,” he said softly. “You have a healthy baby girl.”

Something in his voice was off. Forced. Like he was holding back. My stomach twisted. “Is my wife okay?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“She’s fine,” he said after a pause. “But… I think you should come inside.”

I pushed past him, my pulse hammering in my ears. My wife was propped up in bed, sweat-damp hair clinging to her forehead. She looked exhausted, broken. And in her trembling arms, wrapped in a pink blanket, was our baby.

I stepped closer, my throat tight, my hands shaking. She pulled the blanket back just enough for me to see her face.

That’s when my world cracked open.

The baby was beautiful—perfect, even—but her skin was porcelain pale, her wisps of hair the color of straw. And her eyes… they were the brightest, clearest blue I had ever seen.