I was sitting at my desk, half-typing an email and half-daydreaming about what to make for dinner, when the office delivery guy appeared in my doorway. He was holding a bright pink bakery box, grinning from ear to ear like he knew something I didn’t.
“Good afternoon, Emma!” he said with more enthusiasm than I could process. “This is for you!”
I blinked, confused. “For me?” I asked, taking the box from him.
“Yes, ma’am! Enjoy!”
Before I could ask any more questions, he was gone, leaving me alone with a box that felt heavier than it should. I placed it on my desk, curious but cautious. As I opened the lid, my stomach dropped. On top of the cake was a message scrawled in black frosting that sent chills through my body: “I am divorcing you.”
I stared at the words, blinking as if somehow, I could make them disappear. But the message was still there, glaring up at me. My hands shook as I looked further, and next to the cruel message was a pregnancy test. The same one I’d thrown into the bathroom trash this morning, the one I had forgotten to pick up before rushing out of the house. The test was positive.
My heart sank into my stomach. Jake had found it. He had found the pregnancy test that I had so carefully tried to hide, and now, this cake—this divorce message—was his reaction. A cake. A cake with a slap-in-the-face message.
I felt like the room was spinning. Gripping the edge of my desk, I forced myself to stay calm. I knew the only logical explanation for this was that Jake thought I’d betrayed him. After all, we had been told for years that he was infertile, and this—this test—meant he thought I had cheated on him. I could feel a panic attack bubbling up.
I quickly closed the box and shoved it into my bag, my mind racing as I tried to piece together how things had gotten so out of control. Jake had been devastated when the doctors told him he couldn’t have children. He had internalized it, and ever since, we had barely spoken about the possibility of becoming parents. The thought of having to tell him about this pregnancy—and how he would react—terrified me.
I remembered a conversation from three years ago. I had been sitting on our bed, staring at the ceiling, tired and emotionally drained from months of trying to conceive.
“I think we should stop trying for a while,” I had said, my voice quiet.
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