On the day of the event, everything looked perfect.
People arrived, laughing, taking pictures.
Stephanie walked in last, dressed in white, smiling like she had already won.
She kissed my cheek. “This is beautiful.”
I nodded.
“It will be.”
When it was time, everyone gathered around the cake.
Phones out. Smiles ready.
I picked up the microphone.
“Before we find out the baby’s gender,” I said, “there’s something else everyone needs to see.”
The room went quiet.
Behind her, the screen lit up.
She turned slowly—and the color drained from her face.
I explained everything. Calmly.
The diagnosis. The procedure. The fact that I couldn’t have children.
Then I showed the proof.
Medical reports. Dates. Facts.
Gasps filled the room.
Stephanie panicked. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t stop.
“I also don’t know if she’s even pregnant,” I added.
That’s when the room shifted completely.
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