But that was what I thought.
When we landed, the crew had a small celebration waiting at the gate.
Flowers.
Photos.
Hugs.
Laura looked dazed and happy.
I must have looked half-dead.
She kept looking at me, obviously confused by my reaction.
Finally, when we were alone in the parking garage, she confronted me.
“Richard, what is wrong with you? Are you not happy? We’ve been trying for more than 10 years.”
That was when the poison came out.
“Who’s the father?”
I watched the happiness vanish from her face so quickly that it almost frightened me.
For a moment, she didn’t understand.
“What?”
I repeated it.
She stared at me.
“Are you serious right now?”
I was beyond serious.
I was trapped inside humiliation, fear, grief, and the absolute certainty that my secret medical result made betrayal the only explanation.
“The child cannot be mine,” I said.
Laura stepped backward as though I had struck her.
“I am not lying.”
“Then explain it.”
“I don’t even know how to answer this.”
Her face had gone white.
But I was too consumed by my own fear to truly see her.
We drove home in silence.
The days that followed were even worse.
I asked questions I never should have asked without evidence.
Was there someone at the airline?
Had she been seeing anyone?
Was that why she suddenly wanted to retire?
Every accusation made her quieter.
She denied everything.
Every time.
On the third day, she stood in our kitchen with both hands against the counter, already exhausted by the pregnancy.
“You either believe me, or you don’t,” she said. “And if you don’t, I can’t force you.”
I didn’t even ask for a DNA test.
