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.
I invited both our families. Friends. Made it look real.
And quietly, I prepared the truth.
I even went back to my doctor—just to confirm what I already knew.
On the day of the event, everything looked perfect.
People arrived, laughing, taking pictures.
Stephanie walked in last, dressed in white, smiling like she had already won.
She kissed my cheek. “This is beautiful.”
I nodded.
“It will be.”
When it was time, everyone gathered around the cake.
Phones out. Smiles ready.
I picked up the microphone.
“Before we find out the baby’s gender,” I said, “there’s something else everyone needs to see.”
