Sophie made her way down the aisle— deliberate, as if she knew exactly what impact her presence would have. My chest constricted, old scars tearing open without warning.

Our marriage had ended quietly two years ago—not in shouting matches, but in the slow unraveling of trust and the weight of things left unsaid. But seeing her now, pregnant, here of all places, was a blow I hadn’t seen coming.

When she reached us, she offered a polite smile. Her voice, though soft, sliced through the silence like a blade.
“Congratulations, Daniel,” she said. “You deserve happiness.”

Her words sounded gentle, but their timing gave them a sharp edge. The guests fidgeted awkwardly, clearly hoping the tension would fade quickly. But Emily, never one to let unease hang in the air, stepped forward with effortless poise. She tilted her head slightly, her green eyes narrowing with cool curiosity.

“Thank you,” she replied smoothly. Then, almost innocently, she asked the question that detonated the entire room:

“Who’s the father?”