We were inseparable. Since grade school, she was the other half of my soul, my confidante, my emergency contact, my witness to every single awkward phase and triumph. We knew each other’s thoughts before they were spoken. We were supposed to grow old together, laughing about our grandkids.
Then, she told me she was pregnant.
It wasn’t planned. It came with that mix of terror and wonder that only new mothers understand. I wrapped her in a hug so tight, I thought I’d crack her ribs. My heart swelled with a fierce, protective love. My best friend, a mother. I was going to be the best auntie ever. I imagined every detail: the baby showers, the nursery decorating, all the late-night talks, me being there for every milestone.
But there was a catch. A big one. She wouldn’t tell me who the father was.
“It’s complicated,” she’d say, pulling away slightly, her eyes losing some of their usual spark. “He’s… not in a position to be involved right now.” My heart ached for her. Was he married? A scoundrel? Did he abandon her? I didn’t push. She was my sister. My job was to support her, no matter what. I just held her hand, told her she was strong, that we’d figure it out, that this baby would be loved beyond measure. We spent hours talking names, dreaming of a future for her and her little one, a future I was so ready to be a part of.
Meanwhile, my own life felt solid, anchored. My partner and I had been together for years. We had our routines, our inside jokes, our plans for the future that were starting to feel very real. A house, maybe a dog, eventually, kids of our own. He was my rock, steady and kind. He knew about my friend’s pregnancy, of course, and was gentle, sympathetic. He even offered to help me move some baby furniture into her apartment when the time came.
Still, a quiet unease began to settle in. My friend became more withdrawn, sometimes flinching when I asked about her appointments, or about the baby’s movements. She’d get defensive if I even hinted at the father, something that wasn’t like her. She started carrying her phone everywhere, guarding it. My partner, too, seemed… distant at times. Small things. A lost look in his eyes, a forgotten detail about our own plans, a sudden need to be somewhere else when I’d suggest a double date with my friend and her other single friends. Maybe it’s just stress, I told myself. We all have a lot on our plates.
The day it all shattered, I was at his place, helping him sort through some boxes. He was out picking up dinner. I found myself in his nightstand drawer, looking for a charging cable he swore was in there. Beneath some old papers and a few loose change, I saw it.
A small, carefully folded ultrasound photo.
My breath caught. My hand trembled as I picked it up. Who… who is this? I knew it wasn’t mine. We hadn’t taken that step yet. I slowly unfolded the crisp paper, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was a clear, beautiful image of a tiny human form.
And on the back, in handwriting I knew as intimately as my own, her distinctive loops and flourishes, were scrawled the words: “Our little miracle. Due [Month, Day].”
NO.
It couldn’t be. My stomach dropped to my feet. I stared at the image, then back at the handwriting. No, no, NO. And then I saw it, on the tiny profile of the baby in the photo. A small, almost imperceptible birthmark, just above the brow. The very birthmark she’d pointed out to me excitedly, giggling, saying, “Look, it’s just like the one on my arm!“
I slumped to the floor, the photo clutched in my hand, my vision blurring. A cold, nauseating wave of realization washed over me, chilling me to the bone. Every evasive answer, every late-night phone call, every distant look, every half-truth, suddenly clicked into place with a horrifying, sickening thud.
MY BEST FRIEND’S BABY’S FATHER… IS MY PARTNER.
The man I was building a future with. The man who was supposed to be my rock. He was building a family with her. With my best friend. They were together. This whole time. I didn’t just lose one person today. I lost them both. I lost my future. I lost everything. I can’t breathe. I CAN’T BREATHE.
