Chapter 1
Six months after my vasectomy, Claire Bennett told me she was pregnant.
She stood in the bathroom doorway, holding the pregnancy test, her smile cautious.
"Michael, you're going to be a father," Claire said softly.
I took the test from her, and those two red lines were glaringly obvious, almost burning into my eyes.
Six months ago, I'd had a vasectomy at Riverside General Hospital. The follow-up test showed zero sperm. The doctor had patted my shoulder and said, "Rest assured. This is 100 times more reliable than condoms."
I stared at those two lines for five seconds.
*****
"Aren't you happy?" Claire asked, her smile faltering.
"Yeah, I'm happy," I replied.
I set the test back on the sink and walked out of the bathroom.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The only thing echoing in my mind was, 'Who is the baby's father?'
I didn't question Claire about it.
I didn't argue.
Nor did I slam the door to show my anger.
I pulled out the paperwork from my vasectomy and went over it again to be sure. Everything was clear as day. It mentioned vas deferens transection and stitching, and the follow-up test showed zero sperm.
Medicine would never lie.
Then who was the one lying to me?
The next morning, Claire made me sunny-side-ups like always, smiling as she said she needed to go to the maternity hospital to register for prenatal care.
"Want to come with me?" she asked.
"I've got work stuff. You go ahead," I replied.
Claire replied with a grunt, lowered her head, and picked up some greens with her fork.
From that day on, I started scrutinizing Claire, the woman I'd been married to for five years, with a whole new perspective.
By the eighth week of her pregnancy, Claire started having morning sickness.
She was throwing up a lot, so I poured her some water. As I handed it to her, I caught a glimpse of her phone sitting on the nightstand.
Her phone screen flashed.
A WhatsApp message popped up from someone with the ID "Mr. Foster."
The message was [See you at 3 P.M. tomorrow.]
I kept my cool and handed her the glass.
"Who was that?" I asked.
"It's work," Claire replied, taking the water and sipping it. "I did some illustrations for them before, and they're settling up the balance."
Claire majored in visual design in college, but after two years, she quit her job. She claimed she was picking up a few odd illustration jobs from home, yet the money was barely enough to get by.
I grunted in response.
Mr. Foster.
[See you at 3 P.M. tomorrow.]
Did she have to meet him in person to settle the payment?
I made a mental note of that name.
That weekend, my mom, Victoria Jones, came over from her hometown.
She stood at the door, holding a bag of ribs, and gave Claire's belly a once-over.
"Are you pregnant?" Mom asked.
"Yeah, Victoria. Eight weeks now," Claire replied with a smile as she took the ribs.
Mom didn't say congratulations. Once Claire went into the kitchen, she pulled me out onto the balcony.
"Didn't you get that surgery?" Mom asked.
"Yeah, I did," I replied.
"Then how is she pregnant?" Mom pressed on.
"Mom," I cut her off, "I know what's going on."
Mom stared at me for a while, looking like she had something on her mind but couldn't bring herself to say it.
Finally, she sighed, "Michael, listen to what your wife says, but don't believe everything."
I kept quiet.
The sound of chopping came from the kitchen.
Claire had no clue that while she was showering, I'd already read through all her chats with "Mr. Foster" on her phone.
The meetup texts started three months ago.
Each time, it was at a hotel, a café, or an office building.
She went alone every single time.
In the twelfth week, Claire went for her NT scan.
I didn't go with her.
She sent me a WhatsApp message: [Baby's all good, super healthy.]
I replied: [Okay.]
That afternoon, I met up with Kevin Brooks, a college buddy, for dinner.
Kevin was a partner at a law firm, and he specialized in divorce cases.
"Let me ask you something," I said, pouring him a drink. "Suppose a guy gets a vasectomy, but his wife still ends up pregnant. What's the legal angle here?"
Kevin set his fork down and fixed me with a serious stare.
"Are you talking about yourself?" he asked.
"Only hypothetically," I said.
"It's super rare, but sometimes a vasectomy can undo itself, though the chances are almost zero," Kevin said, thinking it over. "If you have doubts, get a paternity test once the baby's born.
"If the kid's not yours, you can file for divorce and ask for compensation since she cheated."
"And if it turns out the kid's mine?" I asked.
Kevin shrugged, answering, "Then your vasectomy must've failed. Congrats, man. You're a dad after all."
I didn't crack a smile.
"Listen to me," Kevin said, lowering his voice. "Don't let her catch on. Wait until the baby's born and get the paternity test. If you start anything now, she'll be on guard, and that's bad news for you."
I nodded in acknowledgement.
"And one more thing," Kevin added, leaning in. "Keep tabs on her during this time. Anyone she meets, anywhere she goes, every chat, and every payment. Hang on to it all. Save whatever you can."
When I got home that night, Claire was already asleep.
She was lying on her side, her hand resting on her belly, her breathing steady.
I stood in the doorway, watching her quietly for a moment.
It had been five years.
I thought I knew her.
I closed the door and went to the study, firing up my laptop. I typed into the search bar: [What are the odds of a vasectomy reversing itself?]
The search result showed 0.1% to 0.4%.
I closed the browser.
There was no way I'd been that unlucky.