“They’re not mine,” he said hoarsely.
The room went silent.
The nurses exchanged looks. A doctor cleared his throat. I felt the words hit me like ice water, but I couldn’t even process them yet. I was too exhausted. Too overwhelmed. Too in love with the tiny humans who had just entered the world.
“What are you saying?” I whispered.
He took a step back, as if the babies might contaminate him.
“You cheated on me,” he shouted. “You humiliated me.”
I tried to sit up, pain tearing through my abdomen. “That’s impossible. You know it’s impossible.”
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
He didn’t wait for explanations. He didn’t wait for test results. He didn’t wait for reason.
He turned, stormed out of the room, and disappeared from my life that very moment.
I never saw him again—until fifteen years later.
The rumors started before I even left the hospital.
Nurses whispered. Visitors stared too long. Someone asked me quietly if I “needed help finding the fathers.”
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