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Six months after my divorce, I never expected to hear from my ex-husband again. But that morning, as I rested in a hospital bed with my newborn daughter sleeping peacefully beside me, my phone suddenly rang.
The name on the screen stopped me cold: Ethan Walker.
I almost ignored the call. Almost.
When I finally answered, I didn’t bother hiding my confusion. “Why are you calling?”
His voice sounded surprisingly cheerful. “I’m getting married this weekend,” he said. “I thought it would be respectful to invite you.”
I let out a tired laugh. “Ethan, I just gave birth. I’m not going anywhere.”
There was a brief pause. Then he replied casually, “Alright. I just wanted you to know,” before ending the call.
I stared up at the ceiling, feeling a mix of exhaustion and disbelief. Our marriage hadn’t ended because we stopped caring. It ended because Ethan believed his career mattered more than family. When I told him I was pregnant, he accused me of trying to pressure him. A month later, he filed for divorce and disappeared from my life.
About thirty minutes later, as I drifted in and out of sleep, my hospital room door opened suddenly. Nurses froze. My mother stood up in shock.
Ethan rushed in, looking pale and unsettled. Without saying a word, he walked straight to the crib and stared at the baby. His hands trembled.
“She looks just like me,” he whispered.
I sat up. “What are you doing here?”
He turned toward me, panic clear in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me the baby was a girl?”
I couldn’t help laughing softly. “Why would I? You said the baby wasn’t yours.”
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