My name is Emily Thompson, and I just turned thirty this year. Ten months ago, my ex-husband, Daniel Harris, and I officially signed the divorce papers after three turbulent years of marriage. Once upon a time, I believed that the sweet, joyful love we had would be too strong to ever fall apart. But once we moved in together, the small disagreements grew into deep cracks. We argued constantly—about chores, schedules, and things that shouldn’t have mattered. Daniel was proud, and I was stubborn. Neither of us wanted to take a step back. Conflicts piled up, and when we finally realized we were exhausted, it was already too late. We walked away from each other.

On the last morning we met at the courthouse, Daniel only said, “I hope you find the peace you’re looking for.”

I forced a smile and replied, “You too.”

After that day, we cut all contact. No calls, no messages—like we had never been a part of each other’s lives.

Moving out, I returned to live with my mother in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon. I went back to work at the interior design firm, spending most of my days buried in projects. I told myself I was fine. Living alone wasn’t so bad—quiet, simple, predictable. No shouting, no tension, no disappointments. On weekends, my friends sometimes dragged me out for a drink or a movie, but besides that, I lived a peaceful, solitary life.

I didn’t think about dating again. I didn’t think about marriage. I didn’t think about the future. I simply lived, day by day, in silence.

But I would be lying if I said I never thought of Daniel. Late at night, lying in bed, memories slipped back in—him making me coffee every morning, our silly debates over movie endings, the way he clenched his jaw to stop himself from shouting whenever we argued. I wondered sometimes if he had found someone new. Whether he was happier without me. But I never tried to find out.

Everything remained quiet until one strange morning, when things started to change.

I woke up nauseous. At first, I thought it was stress. But the nausea returned every day. Then I realized my period was late. I stood in front of the bathroom cabinet, my heart pounding as I reached for a pregnancy test. When the two red lines appeared—clear, undeniable—I froze.

“That’s impossible,” I whispered.

I hadn’t been with anyone for ten months.

A chill crawled down my spine. I rushed to the hospital for an exam. The doctor looked at the results and said calmly, “You’re nearly eight weeks along.”

Eight weeks.

Two months.

My mind reeled. The timing pointed to the night of the party.

That evening, terrified and confused, I confessed everything to my mother. She stared at me for a long time, her face shifting from shock to something more serious. She shut the kitchen door, lowered her voice, and said, “Emily… you really don’t remember?”

“Remember what? Mom, I don’t understand.”

“The night Daniel brought you home.”

My stomach tightened.

Mom explained slowly. That night, I had been drinking at a gathering with mutual friends. Around 1 a.m., she heard a car stop outside. When she opened the door, Daniel was holding me up because I couldn’t stand. I was apparently clinging to him, slurring, “Dan… don’t go…”

My mother said she tried to take care of me herself, but Daniel insisted, “Please go to sleep. I’ll take care of her.”

He stayed by my side until morning. The lights in my room were on until nearly six.

Mom pressed her lips together before saying, “You two still had feelings. That night… something could have happened.”

My legs almost gave out. I remembered nothing—only that I had drunk too much wine and cocktails, and someone had called a ride for me. Clearly, Daniel had been the one who brought me home.

And now, the truth was undeniable.

The next morning, as I stepped outside to run errands, I saw someone standing at the gate.

Daniel.

My heart jumped. He was wearing a gray coat, hands in his pockets, looking like he had been waiting for a while.

When he saw me, he walked toward me.

“Emily… we need to talk.”

I opened the door, avoiding his eyes. “I’m busy.”

But he didn’t move.

“You know, don’t you?” he asked softly.

“Know what?”

“That you’re pregnant.”

My breath hitched. “Who told you?”

“Your mom called me. She said she was worried you’d panic.”

I turned away, trying to steady my voice. “This pregnancy… it might not even be yours.”

Daniel stepped closer, looking right into my eyes.

“Emily, I know the timing. And I remember everything from that night.”

My chest tightened. “Stop. I don’t remember anything. And we’re divorced. Everything should be over.”

Daniel’s expression softened. Then unexpectedly, he pulled me into his arms.

A trembling, desperate embrace.

“Then let me say it,” he whispered. “That night, when I saw you couldn’t even walk, I couldn’t leave. You were crying, calling my name. I knew I shouldn’t stay, but I couldn’t walk away. I remember every moment. More clearly than anything.”

I didn’t speak. Tears streamed down my face.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, his voice barely steady. “Emily, let’s get back together. Not just because of the baby. Because I still love you. I never stopped.”

I covered my mouth, crying harder. A part of me wanted to collapse into him, to return to the familiar warmth I had missed. But another part feared falling into the same old patterns—arguments, wounds, pride.

“What if we end up hurting each other again?” I whispered.

Daniel reached for my hand—not the confident grip I remembered, but a gentle, careful one. “Then this time, I’ll change. I’ll listen. I won’t make you cry again.”

I trembled. I couldn’t say yes. But I also couldn’t say no.

He looked at me with a mixture of hope and sadness. “I’ll wait. As long as it takes. Just give me a chance.”

When he finally walked away, I stayed standing on the porch with my hand resting on my belly. Inside me was a baby—a tiny life made from the two of us. A symbol of a story that hadn’t truly ended.

I stared at the road long after Daniel disappeared from sight, overwhelmed by a tangle of fear, longing, love, and uncertainty.

Should I go back to him? Should I try again? Or should I raise this child on my own and start a different life altogether?

I didn’t know.

All I knew was one thing—

I had never truly stopped loving him.