It wasn’t driven by love or some emotional connection. It was a reckless, selfish decision—something that meant nothing and ended almost as quickly as it began. The kind of mistake you convince yourself you can hide forever, burying it so deeply that it never resurfaces.
So I tried to hide it.
Or at least, I thought I did.
About a month later, I discovered I was pregnant.
I remember standing in the bathroom, staring at the test, my hands shaking so much I could barely hold it. That moment should have been filled with happiness. We had talked about having children one day. We had imagined it together—joking about names, wondering who the baby would resemble.
But instead of joy, I felt fear.
Because I didn’t know who the father was.
From that point on, my life turned into a quiet, suffocating nightmare.
