“I went to the doctor after our divorce,” she continued. “There was never anything wrong with me.”
The room felt smaller.
“My doctor suggested that maybe,” she paused, her eyes never leaving mine, “the issue wasn’t me.”
My heart skipped.
My new wife slowly turned to look at me.
Van’s voice remained steady.
“I’m three months pregnant,” she said. “It happened naturally. With a man who loves me. A man who didn’t treat intimacy like an obligation.”
The implication landed like a bomb.
Guests began whispering louder.
My new wife’s fingers loosened from my arm.
Van took one step closer.
“You spent years protecting your pride,” she said softly. “You refused every check-up because you were afraid of what you might discover.”
My mouth went dry.
“I filed for divorce thinking I wasn’t enough,” she continued. “Turns out… I was more than enough.”
The words sliced deeper than any accusation.
My new wife finally spoke, her voice tight.
“You told me you didn’t want children yet,” she said to me. “You said we’d wait.”
I couldn’t answer.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know.
I had avoided knowing.
I had avoided doctors, avoided tests, avoided anything that might challenge the image I had of myself.
Van looked at my new wife, not with hostility—but with something almost like sympathy.
“If you’re planning a future,” she said gently, “make sure it’s built on honesty.”
Then she looked back at me one last time.
“You didn’t destroy my life,” she said. “You just delayed my happiness.”
And with that, she turned and walked away.
This time, no one tried to stop her.
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