But something didn’t add up.

Ten weeks.
Because exactly ten weeks earlier… we had fallen apart.

And for nearly two months, we didn’t speak at all.
No messages. No calls.
Then suddenly, she came back. Said she wanted to fix things. I agreed.
Now she was standing in our kitchen, telling me she was pregnant—and the timeline didn’t make sense.

That night, while she slept, I stared at the ceiling, trying to convince myself I was overthinking.
I wasn’t.
Eventually, I did something I never thought I would.
I unlocked her phone.

At first, everything looked normal—family chats, friends. Then I saw a contact: “M .”
My chest tightened.
I opened it.

And everything changed.
She had been lying. Not just about the pregnancy—but about everything.

She talked about me like I was nothing. Like I was someone easy to manipulate. Like I was just a means to an end.
She wanted my house. My money. Everything.

And once she had it… she planned to leave.
I read the messages again, hoping I misunderstood.
I hadn’t.
By morning, I had made a decision.

I didn’t confront her.

Instead, I planned something else.
I booked a venue and told her we were throwing a gender reveal party. She loved the idea—didn’t question it at all.

That alone told me something was very wrong.
At ten weeks, you can’t reliably know the baby’s gender.

But she went along with everything.