Five minutes after signing the divorce papers, my ex-husband called his pregnant mistress and said, “Your son will carry our family name.”

Then the aunt holding flowers slowly lowered them.

Diego hesitated.

For a brief second, his eyes flickered—not with concern, but with something sharper.

Fear.

Not for Allison.

Not for the baby.

For himself.

“Alright,” he said finally, forcing a calm tone. “We’ll step out.”

He leaned down and kissed Allison’s forehead.

“It’s probably nothing,” he whispered.

But his voice didn’t sound convincing.

Not even to him.

They all filed out slowly.

The door closed.

And the silence in the hallway was thick.

Heavy.

Uncomfortable.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

No one spoke.

No one laughed anymore.

The celebration had evaporated, replaced by something cold and unfamiliar.

At minute twelve, the door opened.

The doctor stepped out.

But she wasn’t smiling.

And Allison…

Allison wasn’t behind her.