I was sitting at my desk, half-typing an email and half-daydreaming about what to make for dinner, when the office delivery guy appeared in my doorway. He was holding a bright pink bakery box, grinning from ear to ear like he knew something I didn’t.
“Good afternoon, Emma!” he said with more enthusiasm than I could process. “This is for you!”
I blinked, confused. “For me?” I asked, taking the box from him.
“Yes, ma’am! Enjoy!”
Before I could ask any more questions, he was gone, leaving me alone with a box that felt heavier than it should. I placed it on my desk, curious but cautious. As I opened the lid, my stomach dropped. On top of the cake was a message scrawled in black frosting that sent chills through my body: "I am divorcing you."
I stared at the words, blinking as if somehow, I could make them disappear. But the message was still there, glaring up at me. My hands shook as I looked further, and next to the cruel message was a pregnancy test. The same one I’d thrown into the bathroom trash this morning, the one I had forgotten to pick up before rushing out of the house. The test was positive.
My heart sank into my stomach. Jake had found it. He had found the pregnancy test that I had so carefully tried to hide, and now, this cake—this divorce message—was his reaction. A cake. A cake with a slap-in-the-face message.
I felt like the room was spinning. Gripping the edge of my desk, I forced myself to stay calm. I knew the only logical explanation for this was that Jake thought I’d betrayed him. After all, we had been told for years that he was infertile, and this—this test—meant he thought I had cheated on him. I could feel a panic attack bubbling up.
I quickly closed the box and shoved it into my bag, my mind racing as I tried to piece together how things had gotten so out of control. Jake had been devastated when the doctors told him he couldn’t have children. He had internalized it, and ever since, we had barely spoken about the possibility of becoming parents. The thought of having to tell him about this pregnancy—and how he would react—terrified me.
I remembered a conversation from three years ago. I had been sitting on our bed, staring at the ceiling, tired and emotionally drained from months of trying to conceive.
“I think we should stop trying for a while,” I had said, my voice quiet.
“What do you mean, Em?” Jake had asked, his face confused.
“Just like that, stop trying?” I had replied. “We’ve been trying for eighteen months, Jake. I think we need to take a break.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault? That it’s my body?” he had asked, his voice tight. “The doctors say it’s my sperm. It’s me. It’s always been me.”
After that, we had spent months trying to get our footing back. The pressure of conceiving had nearly destroyed us. But now, this test, this cake, the divorce—Jake believed I had gone behind his back. It made my stomach turn just thinking about it.
Grabbing my things, I rushed out of the office, ignoring the concerned glances from my coworkers. I couldn’t explain; I couldn’t stop to explain. All I could think about was getting home, facing Jake, and somehow finding a way to tell him the truth.
When I arrived home, my heart was pounding. I didn’t know how to begin, how to explain everything. I stepped inside, and there he was—Jake—pacing back and forth across the living room, his face flushed with anger, his body rigid with tension. He turned when he saw me, his eyes wild with fury.
“Tell me the test wasn’t yours!” he shouted, his voice raw.
I froze in place, the words choking in my throat. I had to tell him. There was no other option.
I gently placed the cake box on the counter, my heart heavy with the weight of what I had to do. “It is mine, honey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jake’s eyes darkened, his face contorted with confusion and anger. “What?” he growled. “What do you mean? I thought you loved me! And now I find this—having someone else’s baby?”
“No, Jake,” I said, stepping forward, needing him to hear me. “This baby is yours. You’re going to be a father.”
For a moment, there was silence. Jake stopped pacing, his brow furrowing as he tried to process what I had just said. His confusion was palpable. “No. That’s not possible,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “Emma, I’m infertile. The doctors said it. We’ve been over this for years.”
“Jake,” I said softly, stepping closer to him. “The doctors were wrong.”
He stared at me, not understanding.
“I went to Dr. Harper this morning after I took the test,” I continued, “because I didn’t want you to see it before I spoke to her. False positives happen more often than you think. But she explained everything to me.”
Jake didn’t interrupt, but I could see the confusion in his eyes. I knew he was still trying to make sense of it all. This wasn’t how I had imagined this moment. I had dreamed of telling him about the pregnancy when the time was right, the joy we would share. But this? This was nothing like I had pictured.
“Jake,” I began, taking a deep breath, “you were never completely infertile. Dr. Harper said you have a condition called oligospermia. It means you have a low sperm count, but it doesn’t mean you couldn’t have kids. She told me that the stress of everything—us trying for a baby, the failures, everything—probably made it worse.”
Jake stood there, utterly still, his eyes wide with shock. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Baby, you were never completely unable to have kids,” I repeated, my voice shaking.
He sank into the armchair, the reality of my words slowly sinking in. His face drained of color as his mind processed what I was saying. The anger and disbelief from before melted into something softer, something heartbreaking.
“Oh my God, Emma,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought you cheated on me. I thought you found someone else because I couldn’t… I thought I couldn’t give you what you always wanted.” His words cracked as he trailed off, his body shaking with sobs.
I stood frozen, watching him collapse in front of me, the man I loved—who had been my rock for years—broken, unraveling right before me. I had been holding my own pain inside for so long, but now it seemed like it didn’t matter. I understood his hurt, his insecurities. But the weight of what he had just assumed—what he had believed about me—stung deeper than I ever expected.
“I’m so sorry,” Jake said, his voice thick with remorse. “I thought… I thought I was the reason you would never be happy. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t move. I let him cry, let him process everything. He had been ready to throw everything away, to walk away because of a mistake—because of a fear he couldn’t control.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t deserve this chance. But I swear to you, I’ll make it up to you every day. I promise. I’ll be the best father. I’ll be the best husband.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat, but I didn’t know how to respond. I had dreamed of this moment—the moment we would finally get the news we’d wanted for so long—but not like this. Not this mess. But standing there, watching Jake unravel, I realized that despite everything, we had been given the one thing we thought we would never have.
A baby. A future.
“We’ll figure it out,” I whispered, my voice cracking. For the first time in what felt like forever, I saw hope in his eyes. Jake reached for me, and this time, I didn’t pull away.
We stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of our new future heavy on our shoulders.
What would you have done?