The Last ScanThe ultrasound gel was cold, a familiar sensation in what should have been a routine appointment. But then the doctor stilled, his eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that made the air grow heavy. He asked to see me privately. Behind the closed door of his office, he delivered the words that would unravel my reality. The baby’s development was advanced, he explained. The conception date was not 23 weeks ago, but 26.
He didn’t need to spell it out. The calendar in my mind flipped back, and I saw it clearly: a business trip to Denver. I had been a thousand miles away. “The child could not have been conceived during the time you were present,” he said, his voice a quiet knife. The truth was no longer a hidden suspicion but a medical certainty, displayed in the grainy black-and-white image of a child that was not my own.
When I returned to the room, Anna’s tear-streaked face confirmed everything. The secret she had carried had finally been exposed by the most innocent of witnesses. Her explanation tumbled out—fear, a mistake, the terror of losing me. I stood there, silent, as the life we had built together crumbled at my feet. The path forward split in two: one road led to forgiveness and a complicated future, the other to a clean and lonely break. In that sterile room, with the sound of a tiny, strong heartbeat filling the silence, I had to choose which man I would become.
