“Not to me,” I said quietly. “Not to us.”

But the damage was already done. The nurse’s pitying look hurt almost as much as his accusation. Ryan acted as though he’d said something logical, as if my pain was an overreaction.
The following day, he doubled down. He asked the staff to document his request. He repeated it to my mother in the hallway, loudly, like he wanted witnesses. When I begged him to wait—until I’d recovered, until we were home, until I could think straight—he dismissed me.

“If you have nothing to hide, why are you upset?”

So I agreed. Not because I needed to prove myself, but because I wanted his doubt to be crushed by facts.

They took swabs from all of us—me, Ryan, and our newborn, who whimpered softly in my arms. The lab said the results would take a few days. Ryan walked around acting triumphant, telling people he only wanted “peace of mind.”

On the third day, my OB asked me to come back in for a brief consultation. Ryan didn’t bother coming. He said he was busy.

I arrived alone, my baby strapped to my chest, expecting a routine conversation—or maybe an apology delivered through a professional smile.