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

I felt the blood drain from my face. My chest ached with something between rage and heartbreak. “What the hell is this?” I demanded, my voice breaking. “Whose baby is that? Who’s the father?”

The nurses exchanged nervous glances. The doctor shifted uncomfortably. My wife’s lip trembled as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

She looked at me—really looked at me, with eyes I’d once thought I knew better than my own reflection. And then she whispered, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it:

“There’s something I should have told you long ago…”