It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday morning. Adam and I were in the kitchen, doing our usual dance as we got ready for work.

“You nervous about today?” Adam asked, sliding a plate of golden pancakes in front of me.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Nah, it’s just paperwork, right? Sign on the dotted line, and boom—we’re one step closer to being parents.”

“I can’t wait,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.

I laughed, pushing him away playfully. “Gross! You’re like a big, bearded maple tree.”

As I wiped off the sticky kiss, I felt excitement for our future. We’d been trying to start a family, and this anonymous donor program seemed perfect.

But everything changed at the clinic.

The waiting room felt surreal. I was scrolling through my phone when the receptionist called my name.

“Joan? We’re ready for you.”

I stood up, smoothing my shirt and forcing a smile. But then, the receptionist knocked her mouse, and the screen lit up—showing a face I thought I’d never see again: Mark.

Panic surged through me. I stepped back, whispering, “I need a moment,” and ran to the bathroom, locking myself in a stall.

Mark. My ex. The man who’d torn my heart apart. Memories flooded back—the constant criticism, the rages, the fear. I couldn’t breathe.

After what felt like forever, I pulled myself together, splashed water on my face, and looked at my reflection.

“Get a grip, Joan,” I whispered. I couldn’t let Mark ruin this for me.

I returned to the waiting room, signed the papers with shaky hands, and drove home, my mind racing. Should I tell Adam? What if he wanted to back out?

I arrived home, Adam’s warm smile welcoming me. In that moment, I decided: I wouldn’t tell him. Mark was in the past. This baby would be ours, mine and Adam’s.

“Hey, babe!” Adam called. “How’d it go?”

“Boring paperwork stuff,” I replied, forcing a laugh.

As weeks passed, I tried to push the knowledge of Mark’s involvement aside, but it lingered like a shadow. I’d wake in cold sweats, haunted by dreams of him.

Adam noticed my distance. One night, he put down his fork and asked, “Joan, what’s going on?”

I looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Did something happen at the clinic?”

Panic surged again. This was it. I opened my mouth to spill everything, but instead, I blurted, “No! Everything’s fine. I’m just… stressed.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” he suggested.

I nodded, guilt churning in my stomach. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

As I lay in bed that night, I wondered: What would you do in my shoes? How do you choose between protecting the person you love and being honest with them? Is there a right answer, or am I doomed no matter what I do?