Ten weeks.
That was how far along she claimed to be.
And exactly ten weeks earlier, our relationship had exploded.
We’d had the worst fight of our lives.
It started over my changing work schedule, but quickly turned into something deeper — resentment, frustration, all the things we’d ignored for too long.
“You never tell me anything important!” she shouted.
“You’re overreacting,” I snapped back.
Wrong answer.
Stephanie ripped off her engagement ring and threw it across the room.
Then she packed a bag.
Before slamming the door behind her, she yelled:
“Don’t call me again!”
And for nearly two months…
We didn’t speak.
No texts.
No calls.
Nothing.
Then suddenly, she came back.
She said she missed me. Said she wanted to fix things.
And because I loved her, I agreed.
But now?
Now she stood in our kitchen telling me she was ten weeks pregnant.
The timeline didn’t add up.
