A week later, Shantel had her first scan, where the baby's heartbeat was clear and strong.
She cried the whole drive home. Happy tears. Overwhelmed tears.
Gilbert held her hand tightly in the car, but his jaw was clenched. He hadn't stopped thinking about Sam's words. About probability. About timing.
That night, after she'd gone to bed, he opened the calendar on his phone and counted backward.
Then forward again.
Then back again.
The dates didn't lie.
The night of his promotion party. That was roughly six weeks before the conception estimate. That was the same night he remembered seeing Shantel step out for air while he spoke to some work partners. Then a few moments later, he saw...
He shook his head, furious at himself. Don't go there. You're poisoning your own home.
But once the idea rooted, it never left.
The next morning, Gilbert made an appointment to see a counselor. Not the therapist he and Shantel would later see together. Just someone for himself. Someone to talk to before his own doubts exploded and damaged what they had.
He didn't tell Shantel about the appointment either.
The counselor, a middle-aged man named David, listened quietly as Gilbert recounted everything—from the infertility diagnosis to the pregnancy news to the timeline.
"Sounds like you're sitting on two conflicting truths," David said. "You trust your wife. But you also trust the science."
Gilbert nodded. "And I hate myself for even questioning it."
"It's not about fault. It's about what you choose to do with the information."
"I chose to say nothing. I chose to celebrate with her. Smile. Hold her while she cried. But inside, I'm tearing myself apart."
David leaned forward. "And what happens if the child is yours? Statistically rare, but possible."
"Then I wasted months in fear for nothing."
"And if the child isn't biologically yours?"
Gilbert didn't answer.
David said, "You'll have to decide—sooner or later—whether you're the father by choice or by biology. Because a child knows love, not lab results."
That stayed with him long after the session ended.
The next weekend, Shantel invited Lauren and April over to her house to celebrate instead of she and April going to Lauren's end. They brought mocktails, handmade gifts, and baby books. They laughed for hours, made plans for the baby shower, and teased Shantel about how "extra" she was going to be.
Gilbert stood in the kitchen watching them—three women who'd seen each other through hell and back, holding this moment like it was made of glass.
He wished he could bottle that happiness and keep it safe. Keep her safe.
That night, while Shantel slept beside him, Gilbert opened a new note on his phone. He typed something he never thought he'd have to put into words:
"If this child isn't mine, I will still love her. I will still raise her. Because I see her mother, and I see everything worth fighting for."
Then he deleted it.
Some things didn't need to be written down.
The waiting room at Sam's clinic was quiet that morning. Too quiet. Gilbert sat with a clipboard on his lap and a knot in his gut that had been tightening since the night he made the appointment.
He kept checking the time, even though he was early. A nurse passed by and gave him a brief, polite smile. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air—sharp, clinical. It made everything feel colder.
Sam finally came out from one of the side doors, holding a tablet and wearing the kind of half-smile you reserve for people you care about, but wish you didn't have to hurt.
"Hey," Sam said. "Come on back."
Gilbert followed him into a small consultation room. The door clicked shut behind them.
"I appreciate you doing this," Gilbert said, voice low.
Sam nodded. "Of course. I just wish we were here under different circumstances."
Gilbert didn't respond. He sat down and looked at the framed photos on Sam's desk—Sam and Lauren with their twin boys, a certificate from medical school, a plaque from a reproductive health conference. All neatly arranged. All clear evidence of someone who helped people create life. And here he was, wondering if life had somehow betrayed him.
"You ready?" Sam asked, snapping on a pair of gloves.
Gilbert nodded.
The test was the same as last time—samples, scans, quiet moments while machines did the talking. And afterward, Sam asked him to wait twenty minutes while the lab ran preliminary numbers.
Gilbert stepped outside and walked up and down the hallway. He didn't want to sit. Didn't want to think.
By the time Sam called him back in, he'd already rehearsed three different reactions. But none of them prepared him for the weight of the actual words.
"It hasn't changed, Gil," Sam said gently. "Still a little over three percent. Your motility, though, has increased a bit; it is still considered critically low. The count is barely different from the last time. There's been no significant improvement."
Gilbert swallowed hard. His tongue felt like it had turned to sandpaper.
"You're sure?"
"I double-checked myself."
Silence.
"I'm sorry," Sam added.
Gilbert nodded, blinking hard. "So that means…"
Sam's expression softened further. "It means what we already knew. If Shantel conceived naturally, it's extremely rare for that child to be biologically yours. Not impossible. But rare."
Gilbert stood. He couldn't sit anymore. Couldn't breathe sitting still.
"Do you want to do a paternity test after the baby is born?" Sam asked, his tone cautious.
Gilbert shook his head. "No. Not now. Maybe not ever."
"Okay."
Another pause.
"I just want to know one thing," Gilbert said. "Could stress… could anything else have thrown off the results? Could it be wrong?"
"I know that's what you want to hear," Sam said honestly. "But no. Not in this case."
Gilbert nodded again and walked out without another word.