After six years of marriage, I brought up divorce with Joanne, my wife who’d insisted on a child-free life. She broke down, sobbing that she’d finally have children with me—until I pulled out a breast pump from her moving box. Next to it was a prenatal checkup report for twins. “I found this while packing,” I said. “The twins you’ve been asking me to look out for…they’re yours, aren’t they?” Content While packing, buried beneath some clutter, I found a box that belonged to Joanne. The lock popped open easily, and inside was a used breast pump. Although carefully cleaned, the faint scratches showed it had seen a lot of use. My heart lurched as questions raced through my mind. I’m a cardiologist, and Joanne is the head pediatric nurse at General Hospital. She’d always said she was fed up with all the screaming kids at work, claiming she didn’t want any of her own. That’s why she wanted to be child-free—or so she said. I thought she was just venting. Not long after we married, she became pregnant. I pleaded with her to keep the baby, but she refused and got an abortion. Reluctantly, I supported her decision for her health. So she wouldn’t face that pain again, I even agreed to a vasectomy at her suggestion. I looked at the pump, wondering if it could have been some mistake, maybe even misplaced. My curiosity got the better of me, and I kept digging until I found a prenatal report. My mind went blank. My fingertips tingled. It was a checkup report showing twins, with detectable heartbeats. A corner of the form with the patient’s name was torn, but the listed age matched Joanne’s. Too many coincidences to ignore. The woman who’d insisted on a child-free marriage could very well have two children in secret. I intended to ask her about it that night. But Joanne texted that she’d be covering the nurse’s station overnight. The next morning, I dragged myself to the hospital and barely made it through surgery. As soon as I was done, Joanne waltzed into my office, dropped a kiss on my neck, and said, “Guess what I made you for lunch today, sweetheart?” She handed me a container of pork stew, telling me how nutritious it was. She set the table, chattering on about the twins in her department, whose condition had worsened and urgently needed a rare surgery—one only I could perform. “I know you’re slammed, but could you just move them up in the line?” she asked, her eyes narrowed in a honeyed smile. The sun was shining, but cold dread crept over me. This was unlike her. Joanne, who’d never shown special treatment to a single patient, had become deeply invested in these twins. She’d mentioned their single dad, how hard he had it. She even checked on them every night, and during critical times, would stay by their bedsides until morning. What kind of nurse did that for strangers? Unless they weren’t strangers at all.
Staring at that familiar face, I wanted to confront her, to scream. But it felt pointless. Three years ago, I’d been sent abroad for eighteen months. It was plenty of time for her to have twins. She’d pursued me intensely when we first met at the hospital, making every excuse to be close. I was flattered. Before long, her tireless care wore down my defenses. Over the years, we’d become the “model couple,” or so everyone thought. Even I had believed it. But it was all a lie. Joanne, who’d been so relentless in capturing my heart, was now the one who’d betrayed me. I pushed the container away and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I can’t move them up. That’s unfair to the other patients waiting their turn.” Joanne’s face darkened, and she almost snapped. “It’s just a word from you. Those twins can’t wait any longer. The others can.” The words—coming from a head nurse—sounded foreign and cold. In the past, even in the most tragic situations, she’d always said, “That’s life.” Now, she was trying to pressure me into an unethical favor. She leaned in, squeezing my hand and pouting, “Come on, honey, just this once?” Normally, a little of her sweetness would have been enough to sway me, but now, her begging just felt wrong. I gave a bitter smile. “Seeing how desperate you are, anyone would think you were their mother.” Joanne flinched, forcing an awkward laugh. “You’re so silly! Of course not. I just don’t want to see them suffer any longer.” She quickly got up and straightened her clothes, as if to shake off the conversation. “Think about it. This can’t wait.” As she left, she accidentally left her phone on my desk. A strong hunch made me pick it up and unlock it with her birthday. I went straight to her shopping app and checked her purchases from three years ago.
Seeing the breast pump purchase was like having my shame nailed to a wall. It was followed by an endless list of baby bottles, diapers, blankets, and baby gear. Each item drove a spike through my heart. Joanne hadn’t even bothered to delete the receipts. The memories started piecing together. Once, while scrolling social media, I stumbled across a photo she’d posted. There was a boy and a girl, grinning as they held cotton candy. The caption read, “My little sweethearts are growing up.” She’d told me she was attending a conference, so this post threw me off. But as soon as I clicked into her profile, it vanished like some glitch. I’d asked her about it, and she’d laughed, saying, “Must be a bug. How could I have secret twins?” Another time, I found a lease agreement with her name on it, though she always came home after late shifts. When I asked, she explained that a friend in financial trouble needed a place, and she’d stepped up to help. Touched, I even sent her three grand for her generosity. In hindsight, I’d been played for a fool. She’d taken my trust and sold me out. I heard her heels clacking as she came rushing back to my office. She grabbed her phone, hesitated, and asked, “Did you look at my phone?” Feigning confusion, I replied, “No. Why?” She looked relieved and smiled awkwardly. “Nothing.” I was more certain than ever. She was hiding something.
That evening, I stayed at the hospital an extra hour before dragging myself home. Opening the door, I found the house dark, the only light coming from the candles flickering on the dining table. Joanne stood there, a forced smile on her face. “Welcome home. I’ve been waiting, love.” She was wearing a black backless dress, her curves shadowed by the candlelight. She swayed her hips as if to lure me in, but I barely managed to shrug off my coat, uninterested. Sensing my lack of response, she pressed close to my back, her breath hot on my neck. “Do you want to be a dad?” she asked, her voice low. I froze. Encouraged, she held me tighter. “Why don’t you get that reversal surgery? The success rates are high. We could have a baby.” I almost laughed. Once, I’d practically begged her to keep our child. She hadn’t even flinched, refusing until I finally caved. The day of her abortion, I’d waited on the bench outside the procedure room, crying until my eyes burned. I even got a vasectomy so she wouldn’t face the possibility again. To keep the peace, I’d even lied to my parents about the reasons we couldn’t have children. But now she was asking for them. What did this mean? She pulled me over to the table, piling food onto my plate. “You’d be a great dad, honey. And maybe if you knew what it was like, you’d understand our patients better.” My fists clenched as she went on, urging me to “just think about it” as if she were doing me a favor. I pushed the plate away and said coldly, “Being child-free works fine for me. Enjoy your meal; I’m not hungry.” Her smile twisted into fury. “Mason, what’s that supposed to mean? After all this, you won’t even eat?” “I’m tired. I’m going to rest,” I replied. Through the door, I could hear her muttering complaints. I did want a child—just not with her.
Aside from my work in the OR, I was preoccupied with planning the divorce. When I returned to my office, a container of sweet and sour fish—my favorite—sat on my desk. Joanne must have left it when I didn’t come home. Joanne despised the smell of fish. Yet she’d cleaned out the bones just so I’d enjoy the meal. She was meticulous in caring for me. My clothes, always hand-washed, were pressed to perfection. She stayed up late to make me liver broth, never complaining. Her friends used to tease her for acting “too much like a mom,” but she’d always brush it off, saying, “He’s my everything. Of course, I want to take care of him.” During my year and a half abroad, we’d video-chatted every day. She never seemed to tire of asking about my meals and sleep. She’d cry when I lost weight, saying, “I knew you couldn’t take care of yourself without me.” Eventually, she stopped calling as often, and I figured her workload was just too much. I didn’t ask questions. It’s only now that I realize, during those long time-zone gaps, Joanne was with someone else, raising the children she never let me have. When I’d been sure of our love, she’d been nursing another man’s twins. I thought we’d shared something real, but it was all an act. For six years, I’d trusted her completely. Now, I drafted the divorce papers and called my lawyer. It was time to end it. While finishing up the final sutures in the operating room, my student, Blake Ashford, called me unexpectedly. “Dr. Lake, the twins’ condition just worsened. Ms. Taylor’s in the room and really upset.” Blake shouldn’t have called me while I was in surgery, but maybe he was considering my “special relationship” with Joanne. Besides, I normally wouldn’t have answered, but by chance, this procedure went smoothly, and I’d finished early. Maybe this was fate. I handed off the case to the assisting team and stepped out of my scrubs. Crossing the pediatric hallway, I could already hear Joanne’s cries. I quickened my pace until I reached the door. Inside, a team of medical staff frantically attempted to resuscitate a child whose lips were turning a sickly shade of blue. Joanne looked shattered, her voice breaking in desperation as she shouted, “Please! Save my children!”
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