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

There was a pause.

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“Please, Michael. I’ll explain everything, but not over the phone. Can you come by tomorrow early before Jessica wakes up?”

“I’ll be there at 6:30.”

That night, Jessica made my favorite dinner: wild salmon with roasted vegetables.

She moved around the kitchen with practiced grace, chatting about her day, about plans for the nursery, and about names she liked.

She was either the world’s best actress or genuinely believed what she was saying.

I played along, feeling like a stranger in my own home.

When she kissed me good night, I felt nothing but a cold knot of dread in my stomach.

Michael arrived at 6:25.

I met him at the door, finger to my lips, and led him to my study.

“Jesus, Dad, you look terrible. What’s happening?”

I told him everything: the doctor’s appointment, Jessica’s claimed pregnancy, and the impossibility of it all.

Michael’s jaw tightened.

“I knew something was off about her from the beginning. Something didn’t sit right.”

“The way she rushed the engagement, how she isolated you from your friends.”

“She didn’t isolate me.”

“Dad, when’s the last time you had dinner with James and Linda? They were your best friends for 20 years.”

“When’s the last time you played golf with the Tuesday group? Jessica always has something planned, some conflict.”

I realized with a sinking feeling that he was right.

My social circle had narrowed considerably since Jessica entered my life.

I’d thought it was natural newlywed adjustment; now it felt deliberate.

“I have a contact,” Michael said.

“Thomas Riley, former RCMP, runs a private investigation firm now. I’ve used him for due diligence on some investments.”

“He’s good, Dad. Thorough and discreet.”

“Set up a meeting.”

Unmasking the Ghost of Sarah Martinez

I met Thomas Riley that afternoon at a coffee shop in Kitsilano, far from my usual haunts.

He was in his 50s, with graying hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“Mr. Chen, Michael briefed me on the situation. I want to be straight with you: this won’t be pleasant.”

“If your wife is lying about this, there’s going to be more. There always is.”

“I need to know the truth.”

“Understood. I’ll need access to any financial records you have, her personal information, details about how you met—everything.”

I gave him copies of our joint bank statements, Jessica’s identification (or what I thought was her identification), and a timeline of our relationship.

Three days later, Thomas called.

“We need to meet. Not your house, not your office—somewhere completely private.”

We met at his office in Burnaby, a nondescript building that housed several small businesses.

His office was on the third floor, walls covered with filing cabinets and whiteboards.

“Mr. Chen, please sit down.”

The tone of his voice told me everything I needed to know before he said another word.

“Jessica Hartwell doesn’t exist,” Thomas said flatly.

“Or rather, she did exist. She died in a car accident in Ontario in 2015. Your wife has been using her identity.”

I felt the air leave my lungs.

Thomas pulled out a folder, spreading photographs across his desk.

“Her real name is Sarah Martinez. She’s 43, not 40. She was born in Calgary and dropped out of university after two years.”

“She’s been married three times before you.”

He pushed forward a photograph of a younger woman with darker hair, but the eyes—those eyes—were unmistakably Jessica’s.

“Her first husband was David Hartwell, yes, the real Jessica Hartwell’s brother.”

“He was a Canadian diplomat stationed in Athens. He died in 2018 when he fell from his yacht in the Aegean Sea.”

“Accidental drowning, the Greek authorities ruled. Sarah inherited approximately $2 million between life insurance and his estate.”

My hands were shaking.

Thomas pushed a glass of water toward me.

“Her second husband was Thomas Bradford, an oil executive from Calgary. They married in 2020.”

“He died in a single-car accident near Banff in 2021. Sarah collected another 3 million from his life insurance and estate.”

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

“There’s more. After Bradford’s death, Sarah disappeared for almost two years.”

“She resurfaced in Vancouver last summer using Jessica Hartwell’s identity, stolen from her first husband’s sister.”

“She’s been operating under this name for the past eight months. The pregnancy—”

Thomas pulled out another set of photographs.

They showed Jessica—Sarah—entering a medical clinic in Burnaby, not the upscale Kerrisdale office where Dr. Chen supposedly practiced.

“There is no Dr. Sarah Chen at that address. It’s a medical aesthetics clinic.”

“She’s been getting fitted for a prosthetic pregnancy belly. Silicone, custom-made, very realistic.”

“I’ve got video of her putting it on in a parking garage.”

I thought I might be sick.

“There’s more, Mr. Chen. I tracked her credit card usage. She has another apartment in Surrey rented under the name Maria Santos.”

“She’s been there multiple times per week, always when you think she’s at the gym or meeting friends for lunch.”

“Who lives there?”

“A man named Carlos Martinez, her brother. He’s 36, has a record for fraud and identity theft, and did 18 months in an Alberta prison. He’s been helping her.”

Thomas pulled up security footage on his laptop.

I watched as Jessica—Sarah—entered a shabby apartment building carrying shopping bags.

She was smiling, relaxed, completely different from the refined woman I knew.

“What are they planning?”

My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.

“Based on patterns from her previous marriages, I believe she’s building toward one of two scenarios.”

“Either she’ll claim you’ve become abusive or unstable, divorce you, and take a large settlement. Then you’ll have a fatal accident within a year.”

“Or she’ll wait until she’s adjusted all the legal documents in her favor, then stage your suicide or accidental death immediately.”

“Why the fake pregnancy?”

“Sympathy, isolation. If you have a baby on the way, you’re less likely to question her behavior.”

“Friends and family will excuse any odd requests, like setting up nurseries or accessing joint accounts for baby expenses.”

“It’s also insurance. If you start to suspect something, she’ll claim a miscarriage due to stress you caused. Instant victim status.”

I stared at the photographs spread across the desk, images of a woman I thought I knew living a complete lie.

“The diplomat,” I said, “David Hartwell. The Greek authorities ruled it accidental?”

“Yes, but I reached out to a contact I have with Interpol. They’ve been building a file on suspicious deaths among wealthy expatriates in the Mediterranean.”

“Hartwell’s death fit a pattern: wealthy older man, new younger wife, death in foreign waters where investigations are difficult.”

“They’ve been looking for connections. And Bradford, the oil executive—Calgary police initially investigated it as suspicious, but they couldn’t prove anything.”

“Single vehicle accident. He’d been drinking; toxicology showed .12 blood alcohol.”

“But Bradford’s daughter from his first marriage never believed it. She claims her father never drank and drove.”

“She’s been trying to get the case reopened.”

“Does she know about Sarah?”

“Not yet, but she should.”

Thomas leaned forward.

“Mr. Chen, I need to bring in someone else. A friend of mine, Detective Karen Wong, with the Vancouver Police Department’s Financial Crimes Unit.”

“This is bigger than just you. This woman is a serial predator.”

I nodded numbly.

Detective Wong came to Thomas’s office the next day.

She was in her early 40s, sharp and no-nonsense.

“Mr. Chen, I appreciate you coming forward. Based on what Mr. Riley has shared, we have grounds for a preliminary investigation.”

“But I need to be honest: building a case strong enough for charges, especially for the deaths in other jurisdictions, will take time.”

“How much time?”

“Weeks, possibly months. In the meantime, you need to act completely normal.”

“If she suspects you know anything, she’ll disappear. We’ve seen it before with professional con artists. They have exit strategies prepared.”

“What about my safety? If she’s killed two people?”

“We’ll have surveillance on your property, unmarked vehicles, plainclothes officers.”

“And I want you to change your will immediately. Make it so she gets nothing if you die. That removes her incentive.”