My wife announced her pregnancy in a live stream, unaware that her husband is infertile.

When Emily joyfully announced her pregnancy news during her livestream, James's world crumbled—because he knew full well that he could not possibly be the father.

An Ordinary Friday Night
Returning home from work on Friday, Emily pushed open the door with light steps, humming an off-key pop tune. James lay sprawled on the sofa as usual, eyes glued to his phone screen, fingers mechanically scrolling. "Something good happen today? You seem so cheerful," James mumbled absently, his gaze still fixed on the glowing display. "Mhm," Emily's voice was sugary sweet as she set down her commuter bag and glided over to plant a kiss, cool from the outdoors, on James's cheek. "Just a reminder, my livestream is tonight—don't forget to tune in." James uttered a distracted "Hmm" in acknowledgment. Emily had been running these lifestyle-sharing streams for a while now, focusing on organizing, cooking, or crafting, and had built up a small following. James occasionally glanced at them, but truth be told, they didn't hold much interest for him.

At nine on the dot, James muted the TV and clicked into Emily's livestream link on his phone. On screen, Emily sat poised before the vibrant sunflowers, her makeup artfully applied, her smile brighter than ever, her hands fidgeting nervously on her lap. Viewership numbers in the top corner soared, and comments scrolled by too fast to read. "Here we go!" "Host looks amazing today!" "What's the big news? I'm dying to know!" Emily took a deep breath, waved at the camera, her voice trembling with exhilaration. "Hello everyone, good evening! Thank you all so much for joining me live tonight! Today… today is truly, incredibly special for me. I have something hugely important and joyous to share!" She drew another steadying breath, striving to calm her breathless excitement.

James sat frozen on the sofa, locked in position. On his phone screen, Emily's face shone with unclouded happiness, while the speaker blared deafening virtual cheers and celebratory sounds. Pregnant? The word struck like twin invisible hammers, pounding relentlessly against his skull. A roaring buzz filled his head. His fork clattered onto the plate edge, bounced onto the tablecloth, splattering crimson sauce drops. He felt nothing, as though his body no longer belonged to him. Outside, a car passed by, its headlights sweeping a brief, ghostly streak across the ceiling.

Amid the numbness, an image of a piece of paper invaded his mind—cold, printed, impersonal, clinging to their refrigerator door for days. It was his semen analysis report. The doctor's clear, detached voice, tinged with rehearsed sympathy, echoed in his ears as vividly as yesterday: "Mr. James, all results are in… I'm deeply sorry… Your condition… is obstructive azoospermia. This means the probability of natural conception with your partner is… typically stated as virtually zero." That "zero" had been spoken with absolute, chilling certainty. He recalled dragging his leaden legs from that antiseptic-smelling room, the hallway lights glaring harshly, exposing him mercilessly.

"James! James! Did you hear? We're having a baby!" Emily's exuberant voice pierced his icy shell as she waved wildly at the camera, cheeks flushed, her tone sickly sweet. "Sweetheart! Don't just sit there! Come say hi to everyone! See all the well-wishers! This is our baby!" The phone camera swung abruptly toward him. In the tiny front-facing lens, he saw his own distorted reflection. Summoning every ounce of strength, he forced his facial muscles into a grotesque upward curve. His arm rose stiffly, puppet-like, waving mechanically at the lens. His throat felt choked by gravel, unable to utter a sound. That strained smile on screen looked ten times worse than tears.

"Oh, he's just too overwhelmed, stunned speechless!" Emily giggled, her tone sweetly chiding as she turned back to the camera. "Thanks again, everyone! We're just… so incredibly happy today!" James held the distorted smile, rigidly perched on the sofa edge. Comments flew past tirelessly: "Hubby's totally floored, haha!" "Congrats, dad-to-be!" "Family of three soon!" Each "dad" in the feed pierced his taut nerves like a red-hot needle. The buzzing in his head persisted; Emily's euphoric voice and fans' cheers felt muffled, unreal, as if heard through thick, frosted glass. His sole thought was to flee this corner of artificial brightness and cheer.

Eventually, the stream ended amid waves of goodwill. Emily packed away her gear, still chattering about the spectacle. "Did you see? So many people sent blessings! And so many gifts! It was so heartwarming!" Her cheeks retained a rosy glow, eyes sparkling like starlight. James didn't respond. Silently rising, he headed straight to the kitchen. Turning on the faucet, icy water gushed out. He plunged his hands under the frigid stream, the bone-deep chill spreading instantly. The water washed over his skin, vainly trying to cool an inner fire that wasn't really there. He stared blankly at the stainless-steel filter in the sink, his gaze hollow, as though his soul had fled.

Emily finished tidying and hummed a cheerful tune as she headed to the bathroom. James remained on the darkened living room sofa. The TV screen had gone black, a vast, depthless void swallowing any stray light. Only his phone screen cast a cold glow in the dark. He stared at the empty search bar, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Search for what? "Misdiagnosis rates for azoospermia"? The absurdity struck him. That clinic was among the nation's top reproductive centers. He'd taken the test three separate times, always yielding the same frigid verdict.

In the master bedroom, Emily seemed asleep, her breathing steady and deep, perhaps a trace of unconscious contentment lingering on her lips. Curled on her side, one hand rested protectively over her flat stomach. James lay on the other side, an invisible, impassable chasm between them. The mattress beneath him felt soft, yet he lay as if on cold, hard stone, the chill seeping into his marrow. Ceiling patterns blurred into chaos in the dark. Emily shifted in her sleep, drifting toward him. James tensed reflexively, instinctively retreating to avoid contact.

He had to confirm again, if only to extinguish hope. Rummaging through drawers, he unearthed his crumpled report from the bottom of the study desk. The clinic's address glared back. The drive felt interminable, every red light testing his patience. Reception was manned by the same indifferent, efficient nurse. "Hello, I'd like to verify this report for James Rogers," he croaked, voice tight. The nurse typed briskly, screen light reflecting on her impassive face. "James Rogers… yes, semen analysis, dated three months ago." She glanced up. "Results clearly show: no sperm observed, confirmed obstructive azoospermia. System matches the hard copy. Need a reprint?" "…No, thanks." He fled. Those three words—azoospermia—felt like cold spikes nailing him to a cross of shame and despair. He paused, then tore free.

He skipped work. Steering aimlessly, he parked near a secluded park. Cold wind stung his cheeks. Sitting on a frigid bench, he mindlessly reopened Emily's livestream app. Last night's replay topped the feed: "Explosive News! I'm Going to Be a Mom!" Cover photo: Emily beaming, hands cradling her belly—a picture of pure bliss. What should have been hopeful now mocked him like a savage irony poster. He slammed the power button; the screen died like a dark well, reflecting his own agonized, twisted face.

Home alone—Emily had left for a prenatal craft class at the community center. She'd become excessively cautious lately. Silence swallowed the house; even his breath echoed. He wandered like a lost ghost. His eyes settled on her locked desk drawer. Though he rarely invaded her privacy, a fierce urge propelled him. He found the spare key. Inside, beneath clutter, lay an old phone with a cracked screen. Long disconnected, never repaired or discarded. He pressed the power button. To his surprise, it flickered to life, battery barely clinging.

The background was an old photo from their dating days—both young and naive. He unlocked it, opened the messages app. Mostly junk mail. Scrolling down, fingers trembling with dread, he froze at records from months prior. An unlisted number. Messages leaped out: "Lovely afternoon yesterday. Home safe?" "Coffee Wednesday night? Same place?" "Missing your warm smile :)" Last one, from Emily, sent just after he'd gotten that cursed report: "Thanks for your comfort. It's been so rough—glad you're here, Mark." Mark? James's mind exploded. Blood surged to his temples.

Mark. The name held vague familiarity. James frowned, sifting through fragmented memories. Was he a colleague she mentioned? Or someone from her circle? Once, Emily claimed she'd worked late, dropping her bag by the door—a coffee shop sleeve slipped out. Not her usual spot. On the rim, a faint, blurred lipstick mark—a soft pink tint. James knew Emily never wore that shade. Back then, only a fleeting unease had crossed his mind, dismissed in life's rush. Mark? Ah, yes—a new guy in their company's marketing department. Or was it a client?

Dinner that night. James strained to act natural. "How was the craft class?" he asked, slicing chicken, voice steady. "Made a little teddy from felt wool—for the baby!" Emily's eyes sparkled. "Ugly, but meaningful, right?" "Nice." James chewed, the food like sawdust. Emily eyed him, smile fading. "You… still worried? About the report?" Her tone was tentative. "Maybe… a miracle? Doctors said low odds, not impossible, right?" A miracle? James met her anxious, earnest gaze. She truly believed this was his child. His stomach churned. "Food's getting cold." He looked away.

He fled to the bathroom, locking the door. Water roared from the faucet, drowning all sound. James braced against the cold sink, knuckles white. Staring into the mirror, he saw a stranger—eyes bloodshot, face contorted with pain and rage. Not her fault? He raged inwardly. Yet he'd been sentenced to sterility. So whose child? The reflection accused. His fist slammed into the mirror—a dull thud. Unbroken, but spiderwebbed with cracks. Knuckles bled. He felt nothing. Numb.

"James? You okay? Heard a crash?" Emily's worried voice, knocked at the door. He splashed water on his bleeding hand, toweled it hastily, and yanked the door open. Emily stood there, genuine concern etched on her face. "What happened? Your hand?" James locked eyes. A torrent of betrayal, humiliation, and despair erupted past all reason. "Who is Mark?" The words flew like venom-tipped ice, sharper than he intended. He startled at his own outburst.

Emily's lips trembled. She backed into the doorframe. "Who is Mark?" James stepped closer, voice a low growl. His wounded hand throbbed. "You… went through my things?" Emily's voice shook with disbelief and fury. "Answer me!" James roared. Emotions exploded. Emily shuddered, tears flooding. She crumpled against the wall, curling up, shoulders heaving. No explanation. Just muffled, despairing sobs in the still air. That jubilant livestream snapshot glowed on his phone—a colossal mockery.

Silence stretched. Emily's cries faded to hiccups. Outside, darkness reigned; streetlight glow streaked the floor. James stood like stone, drained. Emily looked up, tear-streaked face swollen. "I… with Mark… only once." Her voice was ragged, nasal. "After… after you got the news… I drank too much… too heartbroken…" She stumbled over words. Office party. Alcohol. Fragility. Mark's comfort. "Just once… James… truly just once…" She buried her face, choking on sobs. "I regretted it… so much… cut off contact… changed my number…" Just once? And it took? James felt it absurd—a grotesque joke.

James stayed silent. He sank onto the sofa like a sandbag. Emily crawled hesitantly to his feet, gazing up tearfully, pleading. "I know I was wrong… unforgivably wrong… I deserve to die… how could I…" Her voice quaked. "But… this baby…" Her trembling, cold hand brushed her stomach as if touching a fragile dream. "He's innocent… he's here… James… a little life…" The child's innocence stabbed like a blunt knife, sawing at his heart—a slow, deep agony. Betrayal was raw reality. The child's existence undeniable. What to do? Forgive? Impossible. Abandon? The "innocent" label weighed on his conscience.

A Silent Weekend

The Prenatal Appointment

Monday morning, Emily approached the study door, phone in hand. It stood ajar. James stared blankly at a wordless document on screen. "Um…" she whispered. "The hospital… I booked the first prenatal exam… tomorrow at nine…" She paused, breath held. James stiffened imperceptibly. He didn't turn or speak. "Will you…" her voice dropped lower, "…come with me?" Prenatal visit? To hear—perhaps see—proof of a child not his? James's eyes fixed on the blinking date clock. Time had crept to this point. Awkward silence stretched, crushing the thin morning air. Emily sighed faintly. Her footsteps retreated, heavy with disappointment.

James stood at his office window. Below, traffic surged. Crowds flowed. Everyone had direction. What about him? Divorce? Tell Emily to abort? It felt monstrous. Accept? Be the child's father? Pretend nothing happened? Could he? The cracked phone, Emily's broken sobs, her blissful livestream smile—these contradictions clashed violently in his mind, throbbing to the point of explosion. He snatched his coat and fled the office. Starting the car, he merged into traffic. But where to go? He had no idea.

Yet, when clarity returned, he found his car parked at the hospital lot. A glance at the dashboard: 9:10 AM. Emily would be waiting alone in reception. James gripped the wheel fiercely. Go up? Enter that area plastered with pregnancy posters and disinfectant smells? See ultrasound images of a barely formed sac? He pictured it—Emily on the table, cold gel applied, the doctor pointing to flickering dots: "See? That's your baby. Strong heartbeat." Would he snap? Vomit? Or… shamefully soften at life's first stirrings? He couldn't predict. He slumped forward, forehead against the cold steering wheel. The engine hummed low, like a dying patient's feeble pulse.

The hum persisted, loud in the quiet lot. His phone buzzed. Screen lit up. Emily's text: "Doctor says baby's heartbeat is strong." James stared. And stared. The engine still running. He looked up at the maternity ward's bright glass doors. Released his grip. Key off. A sharp "click" echoed. He pushed open the car door. Cold air rushed in. Go up? Still unsure. His legs felt weighted with lead, each step a struggle. But finally, his left foot landed solidly, heavily on the parking lot's cold, rough concrete. He had taken that uncertain first step.