Adam was looking for an old flash drive he used for company backups when he decided to go through the most hidden drawer in the cabinet. Among insurance papers, receipts, and his wife's personal items, he found something that made him freeze for a few seconds, as if time had stopped around him.
It was a pregnancy test. Used.
The screen still showed the result: positive. And more than that, the test was carefully wrapped in one of Vanessa's handkerchiefs, stored with the kind of care you don't give to something you just throw away.
This wasn't a mistake or an accident; it was a choice.
He didn't move right away. He just stared at that object as if simply looking at it could change its meaning. But it didn't.
Adam knew his own body and his own past: three years ago, he'd had a vasectomy. A quick procedure, and he never told Vanessa. At the time, their marriage was already cooling off with no sign of intimacy returning, and he, being practical, thought it was a way to avoid future risks or arguments. He said he was going for a routine checkup, went to the clinic, had the procedure done, and came back like he'd just gotten his back adjusted.
Now, that positive pregnancy test was sitting in front of him. The math was simple and painful.
He put the test back exactly where he found it, closed the drawer, and stayed silent in the bedroom for a long time. He went downstairs, made coffee, and tried to work, but couldn't focus.
Images started flashing through his mind in random fragments: Vanessa saying she'd been more sensitive lately, that she was tired all the time, that she hadn't wanted wine at the last few dinners with friends. He'd noticed, but hadn't questioned it. Their busy lives made it easy to accept things without digging deeper.
That night, she came home smiling. She complained about bad traffic, mentioned running into a friend from the club, and asked if he wanted to watch something together. He said he was tired and went to the bedroom.