Your fingers tighten around the sheet.
“What does that mean?”
The doctor points gently at the screen. “You are approximately ten weeks pregnant.”
Diego laughs immediately.
“That’s impossible. I had the vasectomy eight weeks ago.”
Dr. Salinas turns to him. “Exactly.”
The word lands like a match in gasoline.
Diego stops smiling.
Paola goes very still.
You blink at the screen, trying to understand through the fog of fear, humiliation, and the steady rhythm of your baby’s heartbeat.
“Ten weeks?” you whisper.
“Yes,” Dr. Salinas says gently. “Which means conception most likely happened before your husband’s vasectomy.”
The room tilts.
Before the surgery.
Before the accusations.
Before Diego packed his suitcase.
Before Paola smiled across a café table while calling your child someone else’s problem.
Your baby is not proof of betrayal.
Your baby is proof that Diego never waited for the truth.
Diego’s face loses color, but only for a second.
Then he shakes his head. “No. That’s not accurate. Ultrasounds can be wrong.”
Dr. Salinas does not flinch. “Dating can vary by a few days, sometimes a week, depending on circumstances. Not by enough to support what you’re suggesting.”
He steps forward. “You don’t know that.”
