I was in the women’s health clinic waiting room, clutching my appointment slip, when I heard the last voice I ever wanted to hear. “Look who’s here,” my ex-husband Chris sneered, strutting in with his very pregnant wife. “She gave me kids — something you couldn’t do in ten years.” He puffed his chest and introduced Liza, proudly rubbing her belly. He expected me to crumble. Instead, I smiled.

“You assume I’m here for fertility testing,” I said. “Funny thing — in our last year of marriage, I saw a specialist. Turns out, I’m perfectly healthy. If anyone should’ve been tested, it was you — but maybe your swimmers were never in the pool.” His smirk vanished. Liza’s face went pale. “You’re lying,” he stammered. “Look at her!”

I leaned in. “Do your kids actually look like you, Chris? Or have you been telling yourself they take after their mom?” Silence. Liza’s eyes brimmed with tears. Chris’s jaw tightened. Before he could reply, a nurse called me for my first ultrasound. My husband took my hand, and we walked away, leaving them frozen in the wreckage.