My Doctor Told Me I’m Infertile… But My Wife Just Announced She’s Pregnant… What I Discovered…

A Life Upended by a Medical Secret

I walked into Dr. Patricia Morrison’s office on a gray Tuesday morning in February expecting nothing more than my annual executive physical.

At 62, I’d built Chen Properties from a single duplex in Richmond into one of Vancouver’s most respected real estate development firms.

I’d survived prostate cancer five years ago, lost my wife Margaret to breast cancer three years back, and thought I’d seen enough of doctors and hospitals to last a lifetime.

Dr. Morrison had been my physician for 15 years; I trusted her completely.

So when she asked me to sit down with that particular expression on her face, the one doctors wear when they’re about to deliver news you don’t want to hear, my first thought was that the cancer had returned.

“Robert, the blood work came back,” she said, sliding a folder across her desk.

“Everything looks good overall. Your cholesterol is down, blood pressure is excellent for your age, but there’s something we need to discuss.”

I felt my chest tighten.

“Is it back? The cancer?”

“No, nothing like that,” she paused, choosing her words carefully.

“Robert, do you remember the complications you had after your surgery in 2020? The additional procedures we had to perform?”

“Of course. It was hell recovering from that.”

“One of the consequences of those complications is that you’re infertile, completely and permanently.”

“There’s no possibility of you fathering children naturally. It’s been documented in your file for years.”

I nodded slowly, not understanding why she was bringing this up.

Margaret and I had already raised our son Michael.

At my age, more children weren’t even on my radar.

“I understand that, Patricia. Michael’s 34 now. I’m not exactly planning on starting over.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping.

“Robert, you listed Jessica as your emergency contact on the intake form. She’s your wife, yes?”

“We got married four months ago. Why?”

Dr. Morrison’s expression shifted to something between concern and alarm.

“Robert, she called yesterday to reschedule today’s appointment. She mentioned she wanted to be here for the results because of her pregnancy.”

“She said she’s 14 weeks along.”

The words hung in the air between us.

I felt my mouth go dry.

“That’s—that must be a misunderstanding. Jessica couldn’t have said that.”

“I have the message recorded. She specifically stated that she’s pregnant and that you’re the father.”

“She wanted to know if your medications would affect the baby.”

I stood up, my legs suddenly unsteady.

“There has to be some mistake.”

Dr. Morrison’s face was grave.

“Robert, given your medical history, if your wife is pregnant, you need to understand biologically, unequivocally, you are not the father.”

“It’s impossible.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Jessica and I had met seven months ago at a charity auction for the Vancouver General Hospital Foundation.

She’d been elegant, sophisticated, claiming to be a widow herself.

Her husband had been a Canadian diplomat who died in a boating accident in Greece three years prior.

She understood loss.

She understood grief.

We’d connected immediately.

We’d married quickly—too quickly, Michael had said—but after three years alone, I’d wanted companionship.

Jessica had seemed perfect.

She was 40 years old to my 62, well educated, and refined.

She’d traveled extensively, spoke three languages, and had impeccable taste.

She fit seamlessly into my world, and now this.

“Robert,” Dr. Morrison said quietly, “I’m telling you this because I care about you as a patient and a friend. If your wife is claiming to be pregnant with your child, something is very wrong. You need to protect yourself.”

I drove home in a daze, my mind racing through possibilities.

Could Jessica have misunderstood something?

Could she be confused about the father?

But no, we’d been together exclusively for seven months.

If she was 14 weeks pregnant, that meant—I pulled into the circular driveway of our Shaughnessy home, the house I’d shared with Margaret, the house where we’d raised Michael.

Jessica had moved in after our October wedding, redecorating extensively.

At the time, I’d thought she was making it her own; now every change felt sinister.

Jessica was in the living room, arranging flowers in a crystal vase.

She looked up when I entered, her face lighting up with that smile that had captivated me at the auction.

“Darling, you’re back early. How was the appointment?”

I stood in the doorway, studying her face for any sign of deception.

She looked radiant, her auburn hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the bay windows.

“Jessica, Dr. Morrison told me you called yesterday.”

“Oh yes, I wanted to be there, but I had that meeting with the caterer for the foundation gala. How did everything go?”

she said.

“You mentioned you were pregnant.”

Jessica’s smile broadened.

She set down the flowers and walked over, taking my hands.

“I was going to surprise you at dinner tonight. I know we haven’t been trying, but miracles happen.”

“I’m 14 weeks along. I saw Doctor Chen last week, Dr. Sarah Chen, the obstetrician.”

“She confirmed everything. We’re going to have a baby.”

I pulled my hands away.

“Jessica, that’s not possible.”

Her expression shifted, confusion clouding her features.

“What do you mean? I have the ultrasound pictures. Would you like to see them?”

“I can’t have children. The surgery I had in 2020—there were complications. I’m infertile, permanently.”

For just a fraction of a second, something flickered across her face: fear, calculation.

Then it was gone, replaced by injured bewilderment.

“That can’t be right. Maybe the doctors were wrong. These things happen.”

“They weren’t wrong, Jessica. It’s medically impossible for me to be the father.”

She sat down heavily on the sofa, her hand moving to her stomach.

“I don’t understand. Are you accusing me of something, Robert? I love you. This is your baby.”

“Whose baby is it, really?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“How can you ask me that after everything we’ve been through? Everything we’ve shared? I thought you trusted me.”

I wanted to believe her.

God, I wanted to believe her, but Dr. Morrison’s words echoed in my mind: something is very wrong.

“I need some time,” I said, heading for the stairs.

“I’m going to my study.”

I locked the door behind me and called the one person I knew I could trust: my son Michael.

“Dad, what’s wrong?”

Michael worked as an investment analyst at RBC and lived in a condo in Yaletown with his girlfriend Sarah.

He’d been skeptical about Jessica from the beginning, though he’d been diplomatic enough not to say much after the wedding.

“Michael, I need you to do something for me, and I need you to not ask questions yet. Can you recommend a private investigator? Someone discreet, someone good?”