I Will Make My Fake Husband Pay Everything

"Are you going to tell him today?" my sister, Rachel, asked. Her voice buzzed through the phone’s tiny speaker.

"I have the ultrasound right here," I said. My thumb stroked the glossy paper inside my coat pocket. "Twelve weeks."

"He's going to lose his mind, Clara. You guys have been trying for, what, two years?"

"Almost three."

"All those negative tests. All those tears. All the fertility clinic visits. And now, boom. A baby."

"I know. It feels surreal."

"Did you buy the little shoes? The ones you talked about?"

"They're in my purse. I was going to put the sonogram inside the shoebox and give it to him at dinner."

"A dinner that got interrupted by a car crash."

"He was on his way home from work," I said. "A drunk driver blew a red light at the intersection."

"Is he out of surgery yet?"

"The doors are opening now. I have to go, Rach."

"Call me the second you know anything."

"I will."

I ended the call and shoved the phone into my bag.

Dr. Evans pushed through the swinging double doors of the ICU. He marched down the corridor and stopped in front of me, tapping a metal clipboard against his thigh.

"Mrs. Stone?"

"Yes. How is he?"

"He’s going to make it."

"The bleeding?" I asked.

"Stopped. We removed the spleen entirely. It was ruptured beyond repair."

"And his head? The paramedics said he hit the windshield."

"A mild concussion. He got lucky."

"Lucky." I repeated the word, tasting the irony.

"Very lucky. A collision at that speed usually ends in the morgue. The airbag deployed late."

"When can I take him home?"

"Three days, assuming no infections develop." Evans held out his clipboard. "I need your signature on the post-op consent forms."

"Right now?"

"Hospital policy. We need acknowledgment of the splenectomy before we move him from recovery to a standard room."

I reached for the blue pen he offered.

"Oh, one more thing," Evans added. "We need to update his historical medical file."

"For what?"

"The insurance claim. They reject anything with incomplete histories. The surgical team noted the titanium clips in his pelvic cavity."

My hand hovered in mid-air.

"Clips?"

"Yes. On his vas deferens."

"I don't understand."

"From his vasectomy."

"My husband hasn't had a vasectomy."

"The scar tissue and clip placement suggest the procedure was done around 2023."

"Are you sure?"

"The surgeon physically saw them, Mrs. Stone."

"Could they be from something else? A hernia operation? A childhood surgery he forgot to mention?"

"No. Standard sterilization clips. We see them every day. We just need you to initial here."

My stomach muscles violently contracted. A sharp wave of sour bile rushed up my throat.

Two thousand and twenty-three. Two years ago.

"There must be a mistake," I said. My voice dropped to a hollow whisper.

"Mrs. Stone, there is no mistake. It’s a very routine sterilization."

I stared at his mouth.

"He is sterile?"

"Yes."

"Since 2023."

"That is our best medical estimate, yes."

I didn't cry. No moisture touched my eyes. Instead, my pupils dilated aggressively. The bright fluorescent corridor lights burned my retinas.

Three years of marriage. Three years of tracking my ovulation. Three years of temperature readings, crying on bathroom floors over single pink lines, and holding his hand while he kissed my forehead and swore our time would come.

He watched me suffer. Every single month.

He held me while I blamed my own body.

And he had titanium clips sever