My Ex-Husband’s Baby Shower Ended The Moment She Opened My Gift
The invitation arrived on a rainy Thursday.
Cream-colored envelope. Gold lettering. Camille’s handwriting.
I knew it before I opened it.
For a moment, I just stood in my kitchen staring at it while rain tapped softly against the windows.
Then I unfolded the card.
Come celebrate our little miracle.
At the bottom, written in pink ink, was a line that made me laugh before it made me angry.
Sorry you couldn’t give him a son.
No signature. She didn’t need one.
Only Camille could turn a baby shower invitation into a victory lap.
I placed the card beside the documents already spread across my counter.
One folder contained six years of fertility records.
Six years of appointments.
Six years of injections.
Six years of believing I was the reason our marriage never produced a child.
Daniel had never corrected that assumption.
In fact, he encouraged it.
Whenever another treatment failed, he would sigh, squeeze my hand, and tell me we’d keep trying.
When I cried, he comforted me.
When I blamed myself, he stayed quiet.
The truth arrived long after the divorce.
A specialist reviewing old records noticed something that should have been impossible to miss.
Daniel wasn’t infertile.
Daniel was sterile.
Not low fertility.
Not reduced fertility.
Sterile since birth.
I opened the report again.
The conclusion hadn’t changed.
Neither had the second document sitting underneath it.
A paternity test.
Alistair Mercer.
Daniel’s younger brother.
Probability of paternity: 99.99%.
