Pregnant With Another Man's Child

The subtle swelling of my lower abdomen was already unmistakable. The cotton pajamas stretched into a gentle curve, as if cradling a meek little creature. At five months' gestation, my palm could just feel the steady flutter of the fetus inside. I curled my fingers and gently tapped; an immediate response resonated within, like a pearl wrapped in velvet rolling softly. A smile crept to the corner of my lips as I brushed my hair, staring into the mirror. The woman in the mirror wore a flushed complexion, her eyes glowing with maternal tenderness—yet that light swiftly shattered at the sound from the living room. The sound of Daniel Lynn changing his shoes was very soft. He was always like this, as if afraid of disturbing something. The bone china bowl on the dining table held millet porridge, its steam condensing into white mist in the cold air. He sat across from me, the light from his phone screen reflecting on his face, his eyelashes casting a faint shadow. His fingers moved swiftly across the screen, his nails tapping out soft, delicate sounds. "What would you like to eat tonight?" I pushed over the peeled egg, "Mom brought bird's nest from M Country, saying it's best simmered with rock sugar." He didn't even lift his head. "Whatever." Those two words, wrapped in indifference, were like a fine needle embroidered with barbs, gently pricking the inside of my wrist. I withdrew my hand, my fingertips brushing over the rose pattern on the tablecloth. This tablecloth was chosen on our wedding day—an off-white background embroidered with pale blue roses; back then, he bent down to brush a loose thread from my shoulder and said, "As long as you like it." In the foyer's shoe cabinet, his brown leather shoes bore a strange scent of perfume once again. This time, it was a sickly sweet gardenia fragrance, mingled with the burnt smell of tobacco, clashing with the cedar scent I usually wore. Last week when he returned, his tie clip had changed. That platinum leaf was the anniversary gift I gave him; now it has been replaced by a silver serpentine one, with a chestnut-colored long hair caught on its scales—my hair is black. "The doctor said the baby is very healthy during the prenatal check-up." I stirred the porridge bowl, the white porcelain spoon striking out a crisp sound. "The biparietal diameter has already reached 4.2 centimeters." He finally raised his eyes, his gaze lingering on my lower abdomen for half a second. "I understand." The phone vibrated again, and as he lowered his head to reply, his Adam's apple moved. I saw his thumb swiftly press out the words "well-behaved", and a note reading "Stacy" appeared in the top right corner of the screen. Until that day, when I went to the hospital for a routine prenatal checkup. The white walls of the consultation room glowed with a cold light, and as the nurse handed me the medical records, her pen hesitated momentarily on the form. "Ms. Collins, your husband's vasectomy follow-up check last time went quite well, didn't it?" The tension in my hand gripping the pen suddenly released. The black pen slammed sharply onto the desk, rolled to the corner, and stopped; as the cap flew off, a drop of ink splattered, blooming like a small dark cloud on the ultrasound report. "What did you say?" My voice trembled, like paper crumpled by the wind. The nurse lifted her head, a flicker of astonishment in her eyes. "It's Mr. Daniel Lynn." "He underwent a vasectomy on August 13th last year. The surgery record number is S2023081307." "He even came back for a checkup on the fifteenth of last month; all indicators were normal." August 13th of last year. Cold sweat instantly soaked the shirt on my back. That day was our hundred-day wedding anniversary; he said he had gone on a team-building trip to a neighboring city and brought back a box of moldy osmanthus cake, claiming it was a local specialty. The test report slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. On the ultrasound report, that tiny gestational sac curled quietly at the center of the uterus, marked alongside with "19 weeks + 3 days." The embryo's heartbeat flickered like a faint candle flame, gently shimmering on the ultrasound image. I staggered out of the consultation room; sunlight poured through the glass window onto me, yet it felt like shards of ice wrapped around my body. In the corridor, someone pushed a baby stroller past me; the baby's laughter was sharp and piercing, stabbing at my eardrums. A girl in a pink nurse's uniform was bathing a newborn; the sound of water mingled with the scent of milk—these warm sounds all became shards of glass piercing through me. The phone in my pocket vibrated. It was a message from my close female friend, accompanied by a photo. The photo was taken at a cafe on the street corner. Daniel Lynn stood beside the outdoor seating, bending down to adjust the scarf on the woman opposite him. His fingers slipped through the beige cashmere, gently gathering it around her neck, the gesture intimate as if tending to a fragile treasure. When the woman looked up and smiled, the dimples revealed were exactly like those in my high school photos. I recognized that woman. Stacy Scott, his first love hidden deep within his phone's album—the 'forever friend' in his social circle. Last year, at the class reunion, she wore the same apricot-colored dress as I did. When Daniel Lynn came home that night, I spread the prenatal examination form before him. The edges of the A4 paper were creased from my grip, like the uneven beats of my heart in that moment. "This child..." I bit my lip, tasting a faint metallic tang of blood. The question lodged in my throat — how did this child come to be? You, on the hundredth-day memorial, clearly extinguished the possibility of us having a child with your own hands. He glanced briefly at the form, his fingertip lingering over the words 'intrauterine pregnancy.' His nails were neatly trimmed, and the pads of his fingers bore a thin callus—the consequence of recently taking up golf. "Since it's already happened, let the child be born." He spoke casually, as if discussing the weather for the evening. Yet his gaze drifted to the window, settling on the bare phoenix tree below, deliberately avoiding my eyes. A bell I hung last festival still clung to a branch; when the wind blew, its sound had long since faded. "You had a vasectomy last year?" At last, I spoke the words. My voice was hoarse, like sandpaper against wood. The air stilled, frozen in an instant. The living room clock ticked, each sound striking like a note drawn tight on a taut string. The wall lamp's glow drifted across his face, slicing his profile into a patchwork of light and shadow. He remained silent for so long I thought he would never answer. Outside, the streetlight flickered on; its dim, yellow glow filtered through the sheer curtains, casting shifting shadows across his face. Then, slowly, he raised his head. "Yes." No explanation, no remorse—only a cold, matter-of-fact admission. It was as if saying, "The weather is bad today," as if that matter had no bearing on me, no bearing on this child. A week later at the art exhibition, I arrived at the gallery half an hour early. Clutching the prenatal examination form in my hand, I longed to have a serious talk with him. No matter why he deceived me, this child is innocent. The gallery held few people, and the color blocks of the abstract paintings warped into eerie shapes on the walls. The oil paintings from the 'Chaos' series exuded the scent of turpentine; I skirted around a colossal metal sculpture, only to hear a familiar voice in the corner. This is Daniel Lynn. "Bet five hundred, Lydia Collins won't be able to keep this pregnancy." His voice held a laugh—a mocking amusement, like watching a play, heavy as a pebble thrown onto ice. "I bet that once she finds out the truth, she'll leave." Another voice answered—it was his childhood friend Mike Young, "Then you and Stacy Scott can be openly together." "You tell me," Daniel Lynn's voice lowered but cut sharply into my ear, "Whose child is this child really from?" My blood froze inside me. My stomach churned like a storm; the cold metal of the sculpture I gripped sent numb pricks through my hand. Turning away, my high heels clicked sharply on the marble floor, each step a hurried 'thud.' It was as if I were fleeing a cage engulfed in flames. On the day I was to undergo the abortion, rain fell softly from the sky. The bench in the hospital corridor was cold. I sat waiting for my number, watching raindrops weave slanting patterns against the windowpane. On my phone, my close female friend sent a message asking, "Have you decided?" I replied with a quiet, "Hmm." The TV in the waiting area played a parenting program. A young mother gently patted her baby's back—the scene pierced my eyes with aching sorrow. When I returned home, the key turned twice in the lock. The door clicked open; as I pushed it, I froze in place. The living room was empty. My beige sofa was gone, the wedding photo that had hung on the wall was taken down, leaving behind four pale, white nail holes. In the study, the picture books, art supplies, and souvenirs I had collected over the years from our travels had all disappeared. Only Daniel Lynn's business magazines remained on the bookshelf, lined up neatly like soldiers in formation. The master bedroom door stood open. Stacy Scott stepped out wearing my silk nightgown, the lotus-pink fabric clinging to her body, the neckline crooked and askew. Her hair was damp, the tips still dripping, water droplets sliding down her neck into the collar. The nightgown's cuffs were embroidered with my initials, stitched by my mother's own hand—crooked, uneven stitches concealing her heartfelt care. "You're back?" She smiled, the curve at the corner of her mouth laced with deliberate provocation. On the wedding bed behind her, their clothes lay scattered—like torn remnants of the past.