Diego laughed sneeringly.
“I had a vasectomy two months ago, Laura. I’m not an idiot.’
That sentence struck me like a cheek.
Idiot.
The man I lived with for eight years, the man who once promised to face every difficulty with me, now spoke to me with such contempt.
I tried to explain that the doctor clearly said: after the vasectomy, it still takes time for a checkup. We had to wait for confirmation. It was not that the operation made him immediately infertile at the time of its execution.
But Diego didn’t listen to me.
In his head, the sentence against me has already been handed down.
“Who is it?” he asked.
I froze.
“What?”
“Father of the child. Tell me.”
A wave of nausea went to my throat.
Not because of the pregnancy.
Because of the man standing in front of me.
That same evening, Diego pulled a suitcase out of the bedroom.
He didn’t pack much.
Just enough to make me realize he’s got somewhere to go.
“I’m moving in with Paula,” he said without any shame.
Paula.
His co-worker.
