“Congratulations,” I said evenly. “When was the last time we slept together?”

Emily’s smile stiffened.

A moment earlier, the dining room in my mother’s house had been full of noise—glasses clinking, my sister laughing a little too loudly, my stepfather carving roast chicken like it was a holiday instead of an ordinary Sunday in late May. Emily had just stood, one hand resting on her stomach, her voice soft and glowing.

“We’re having a baby.”

That was when I raised my glass, met her eyes, and said it.

Now everything had gone still.

My mother, Diane, slowly placed her fork down. “Nathan,” she said under her breath.

But I didn’t look at anyone else.

Only my wife.

The color drained from Emily’s face. Her hand trembled once where it rested on her dress before she dropped it. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one.” I leaned back, my tone calm—almost courteous—which made it sharper. “When. Exactly.”

Chloe stared between us, confused and scared. Mark stopped chewing. Even the grandfather clock in the hallway suddenly sounded too loud.

Emily let out a thin laugh. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“No,” I said. “I’m giving you an opportunity.”

Her jaw tightened. “Nathan, not here.”

I folded my napkin with care and set it beside my plate. “We haven’t slept together in eleven weeks.” I let the number settle into the room. “Not since the hotel in Denver, before your ‘girls’ trip’ to Miami. I remember because after that, I moved into the guest room, and two weeks later I had my vasectomy follow-up. The doctor confirmed it worked months ago.”

My mother inhaled sharply.

Emily’s eyes flicked around the table, searching for help. No one moved.

“You told me you were stressed,” I continued. “Too tired. Overwhelmed with work. You told everyone we were trying to reconnect.” I paused. “So I’ll ask again. Who’s the father?”

“That’s enough,” Emily snapped, but panic had already cracked through her voice.

Mark swore quietly. Chloe covered her mouth.

I reached into my jacket and placed a printed photo beside her plate. Not tossed. Not slammed. Set down. A timestamped image from two Fridays ago: Emily outside the Fairfield Inn near Baltimore, kissing Daniel Mercer, her regional manager.

Emily stared at it as if it might vanish.

My mother went pale. “Oh my God.”