I felt a dull thud in my chest. “Months?” I repeated. “And no one told me anything?”
The doctor held my gaze with the calm of a physician who has seen too many tragedies. “From what I understand, she chose to hide it from you.”
I ran a hand over my face. Everything clicked into place, and yet nothing made sense. The paleness. The fear. The rush to leave.
“Is it serious?”
“Yes. But that’s not the only reason she asked us to call you.”
He handed me the envelope. I opened it with clumsy fingers. Inside was a photograph and a folded sheet of paper. The photograph froze me before I could read a single word. It was a little girl. About two years old, sitting in a plastic chair in what looked like a daycare center. She had dark hair tied in a crooked pigtail, a yellow t-shirt, and a small, shy smile. I stared at it for two seconds before feeling the void in my stomach.
The girl had my eyes. Not just similar—they were too identical to be a coincidence. I unfolded the paper.
Carlos,
If you are reading this, it’s because my body no longer allowed me to keep postponing the truth. The girl in the photo is named Sophia. She is your daughter.
I found out I was pregnant a week before we signed the divorce papers. I wanted to tell you. I swear. But that same month, I got my first diagnosis. They told me I had to start tests, that I might not be able to carry the pregnancy to term, that my life was going to become a series of hospital visits. And I saw you so tired, so distant from me, so fed up with everything we were, that I lost my nerve.