I had no peace.
I was terrified.
Terrified of losing my home.
Terrified of raising a child alone.
Terrified that my baby would carry the name of a man who already rejected him before even seeing his face.
Two weeks later, Diego asked me to meet him at a café.
He came with Paola.
And a folder.
“I want a quick divorce,” he said. “And when the baby is born, a DNA test.”
Paola touched her flat stomach and smiled faintly.
“It’s the healthiest choice for everyone.”
I looked at her.
“For everyone, or for you?”
Diego slammed his hand on the table.
“Stop acting like the victim. You destroyed this family.”
I opened the folder.
Give up the house.
Minimum support.
Conditional custody.
Then one clause made my blood run cold: if the baby was not his, I would have to repay him for “all marital expenses.”
I laughed.
