I thought the divorce would be quick—sign, leave, forget. Then I looked up in the courthouse hallway and froze. “Marcus,” she said calmly, one hand resting on her stomach. Seven months pregnant. My chest tightened. “Is it… mine?” I whispered, my voice barely human. She didn’t answer. She just met my eyes—and in that silence, everything I ran from came crashing back.

Our marriage hadn’t exploded. It had withered. Late nights at the office. Meals eaten alone. Conversations postponed until they disappeared. I told myself I was building a future for us. Alina kept telling me she needed me now, not someday. I didn’t listen. When we separated, it was polite. Clean. I thought that meant mature.
I hadn’t asked many questions after she moved out. I told myself distance was mercy.
Now I realized it was avoidance.
Inside the courtroom, the judge spoke in a measured voice, flipping through papers like this was just another file. Alina sat across from me, hands folded over her belly. I couldn’t stop staring at the small, unconscious movements beneath her palm. Proof of a life I didn’t know existed.
When the judge asked if we wished to proceed, my mouth went dry.
“Yes,” Alina said quietly.
That word hit harder than any argument we’d ever had.
The papers slid toward us. I picked up the pen, my hand shaking. If I signed, I walked away forever—from her, from the baby, from whatever responsibility I might have already failed.
My pen hovered over the line.

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