“What do you mean impossible?”
He laughed bitterly.
“Yesenia, I had a vas*ctomy two months ago.
Do you honestly think I’m stupid?”
The accusation hit harder than any scream could have.
Stupid.
That was what my husband of eight years thought of me.
The same man who had insisted the procedure was the responsible choice because money was tight and we could talk about more children someday.
I reminded him of everything the doctor had explained.
That it doesn’t work immediately.
That follow-up testing is necessary.
That pregnancy can still happen during the recovery period.
But Nestor wasn’t listening.
He had already decided what the truth was.
“Who is he?” he demanded.
I stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“The father.
Tell me his name.”
That night, he packed a suitcase.
Not all of his belongings.
Just enough to show me he had somewhere else to go.
“I’m staying with Xiomara.”
Xiomara.
His coworker.
The same woman who used to compliment my cooking and tell me how lucky I was to have such a wonderful husband.
The next day, my mother-in-law showed up carrying garbage bags.
Not to comfort me.
Not to ask about the baby.
She came to collect Nestor’s clothes.
“How disappointing,” she said while glaring at my stomach.
“My son deserved better.”
“I didn’t ch*at on him.”
She offered a patronizing smile.
“That’s what they all say.”
Within days, rumors spread through the neighborhood.
The unfaithful wife.
