My wife announced her pregnancy in a live stream, unaware that her husband is infertile.-5
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26th November 2025
Silence at Breakfast
Next morning, sunlight streamed harshly through the window. Emily bustled in the kitchen, her mood still buoyant as she hummed a cheerful, tuneless melody. "Scrambled or fried eggs this morning?" she asked while plating. James sat at the table, staring at his clean plate, appetite vanished as if his stomach were knotted. "Either," he rasped, voice flat. "Still basking in last night, grinning away?" Emily teased, sliding milk toward him. "Can't snap out of it, huh? Me too—like walking on clouds, unreal as a dream!" She bit into buttered toast, cheeks bulging with a youthful bounce. James silently lifted his glass. The icy surface felt cold. He sipped; the milk tasted flavorless, like water.
The Untouchable Secret
His gaze involuntarily dropped to Emily's soft-clad abdomen—still flat as ever. Was there truly a tiny life growing there? His child? A wave of absurdity crashed against his reason. He opened his mouth to ask. But the crucial question lodged like a boulder in his throat. How to phrase it? "Who's the father?" Too cruel, too raw, too degrading. That report with its "virtually zero," once taped to the fridge, burned like a searing brand in his memory. And her words—"our" baby—that "our" now rang with cruel irony and haunting uncertainty.
The Clinic's Chill Memory
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.
NEXT >>
Next morning, sunlight streamed harshly through the window. Emily bustled in the kitchen, her mood still buoyant as she hummed a cheerful, tuneless melody. "Scrambled or fried eggs this morning?" she asked while plating. James sat at the table, staring at his clean plate, appetite vanished as if his stomach were knotted. "Either," he rasped, voice flat. "Still basking in last night, grinning away?" Emily teased, sliding milk toward him. "Can't snap out of it, huh? Me too—like walking on clouds, unreal as a dream!" She bit into buttered toast, cheeks bulging with a youthful bounce. James silently lifted his glass. The icy surface felt cold. He sipped; the milk tasted flavorless, like water.
The Untouchable Secret
His gaze involuntarily dropped to Emily's soft-clad abdomen—still flat as ever. Was there truly a tiny life growing there? His child? A wave of absurdity crashed against his reason. He opened his mouth to ask. But the crucial question lodged like a boulder in his throat. How to phrase it? "Who's the father?" Too cruel, too raw, too degrading. That report with its "virtually zero," once taped to the fridge, burned like a searing brand in his memory. And her words—"our" baby—that "our" now rang with cruel irony and haunting uncertainty.
The Clinic's Chill Memory
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.
NEXT >>
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