Before I could speak, she said she was pregnant. I’m 19, and the words hit like a truck. Panicked, I blurted, “That’s impossible — I can’t have children.”
She froze. Tears welled up, and she cried uncontrollably. I drove her home in silence. That night, I couldn’t sleep, my mind spinning with questions. At 2 a.m., I heard her voice from the living room, whispering on the phone: “He believed me. He doesn’t know the truth.”
My stomach dropped. The pregnancy was a lie to keep me from leaving. The next day, I confronted her calmly, wished her healing, and walked away, choosing honesty over pain.
