“I want to thank my wife,” Franco said, smiling with theatrical generosity, “for accepting her shortcomings and organizing this event herself. Valerie, do you have a gift for my son?”
My son.
The words echoed.
“Yes,” I said calmly. “I do.”
I signaled a waiter, who handed me a large red envelope.
“Jessica,” I said, turning to her, “you said you are three months pregnant?”
“Yes,” she replied sharply. “And it’s a boy. The future CEO.”
“Wonderful,” I said softly.
Then I looked at Franco.
“Open my gift.”
He tore open the envelope with anticipation. He expected property deeds. A trust fund document. Something worthy of the heir he believed he had secured.
Instead, he pulled out a medical report.
His smile faltered.
He read once. Then again.
Color drained from his face.
“What is this?” he whispered.
“Read it aloud,” I said.
He couldn’t.
So I did.
“For ten years,” I said, my voice steady through the microphone, “you blamed me for not having a child. You called me barren. Worthless.”
I turned to Doña Matilda.
“You humiliated me at every opportunity.”
Murmurs spread through the guests.
“Last month,” I continued, “I visited a fertility specialist. I am perfectly healthy. There is nothing wrong with me.”
The room quieted.
“So I began to wonder,” I said, “if I am healthy, why did I never conceive?”
I let the silence build before delivering the truth.
“I obtained a sample of Franco’s hair and sent it for laboratory testing. The report in his hand confirms that he has azoospermia.”
I paused.
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