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Placing my purse on the kitchen island, I immediately head to my bedroom for a shower and a mental breakdown under scalding water.

The water beats down on my back and face as I go through my shower routine, but the panic hits again just as I’m lathering my hair with shampoo.

Sinking down on the shower bench, I struggle to breathe in with all the steam surrounding me. Everything goes fuzzy, and my thoughts swirl.

Something twists in my chest as I fixate on the doctor’s words.

You’re pregnant.

Am I happy about this? Absolutely.

It’s what I’ve been trying for these past two years.

But like this?

Having a baby after sleeping with a man only once?

He has to be the dad, right?

I haven’t slept with anyone else.

How could this have happened, though?

We used condoms!

Realization dawns, and my eyes grow wide.

My hidden album.—I finally remember.

Without shutting off the water or rinsing the shampoo out of my hair, I scramble out of the shower. I throw a towel around my body and race to the kitchen.

Dripping wet, I search through my Mary Poppins bag for my phone, which I find under all the crap I keep in there.

When I try to unlock my phone, facial recognition doesn’t work, and my wet hands struggle to type in the passcode.

I wipe my hands and the phone screen on my towel to dry off everything and try again.

Just having my phone open makes a breath rush out of my lungs in relief.

A puddle of water and sudsy bubbles form on the floor around my feet. I know they’re here, the photos and videos from that night. I specifically asked him to take them on my phone so I could control what and with whom these were shared.

I navigate to my photos and wait for facial recognition to open the album of hidden pictures and videos. I stop when the folder opens.

The photos and videos are right there, but I can’t bring myself to click on them.

To watch my choices unfold before me.

But I want this. I have wanted this more than anything. This has been my goal, and what I have been trying to achieve.

I turn and slump to the floor, my back resting on the cabinets under the kitchen island counter. Once settled, I force myself to click on the last video saved in the album.

Thirteen minutes and twenty-three seconds.

In thirteen minutes and twenty-three seconds, I’ll know for sure.

Clicking on the small icon, the video begins to play. It starts with a frame of my face, which is surrounded by my mess of curls. It then moves down to show my breast, which fall to my sides and every roll of my stomach. When the recording reaches my waiting pussy there’s a glorious cock sheathed in a condom there as well.

I let out a relieved breath at the confirmation that we used a condom.

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