I Discovered a Pr.eg.n.a.ncy Test and a Note in My Dad’s Package, So I Spied On His Appointment.

Never in a million years did I think I’d stumble upon a positive pre..gn.ancy test inside a parcel addressed to my father. And certainly not with a flirtatious note attached, mockingly signed “love.” Was my dad cheating on my mom? Was he planning to welcome a baby behind our backs?

All my life, I’d believed my parents had a love that could weather anything. They laughed at the same silly jokes, waltzed through the kitchen when they thought no one was watching, and never passed up an opportunity to remind me — and each other — just how much love filled our home.

But now? Now I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

I’d moved out of my childhood home at eighteen, full of dreams and ambition, eager to carve my path in the city.

My apartment was tiny. There was just enough space for me, a squishy, sunken couch, and a kitchenette barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. But it was mine, and I took pride in every square inch.

Between juggling my job and college courses, I could barely catch my breath — let alone make a trip out to the suburbs to visit my parents. Of course, we kept in touch, but it had been months since I’d seen them in person.

That’s why, when my phone rang that afternoon and my dad’s name popped up, I instantly smiled and picked up.

“Well, if it isn’t my long-lost father,” I teased.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, his voice warm. “Guess what? I’m heading into the city for work tomorrow.”

“You’re kidding!” I leapt up from the couch, eyes wide. “That’s amazing! Where are you staying?”

“Just a downtown hotel. Only for a couple of nights.”

“Then I’m definitely coming to see you. No excuses.”

He chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

I hung up, still buzzing from the surprise.

Dad and I had always shared something special. He was the one who taught me how to drive, the one who cheered the loudest at every one of my plays, the one who made blueberry pancakes every single Saturday morning without fail.

I couldn’t wait to see him again.

The next afternoon, I made my way to his hotel, practically skipping through the lobby. When he opened the door, I threw my arms around him without hesitation.

“Dad!” I squealed with excitement.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he said, hugging me close. “Wow. You look wonderful.”

“So do you,” I smiled, stepping back to take him in. He looked like himself — though his hair was noticeably grayer, and slightly longer since I’d last seen him.

But that smile? Still exactly the same.

We curled up on the hotel couch and caught up like no time had passed.

He asked about my classes, my work, if I was sleeping enough and eating well.

In return, I asked about Mom, the house, and our dog Buster. Everything about our conversation felt comfortable and familiar. I felt safe. Genuinely happy.

That was… until someone knocked on the door.

Dad had gone into the bathroom just a minute earlier.

“Can you get that?” he called. “It’s probably a delivery.”

I stood up and opened the door to find a delivery guy holding a small brown parcel. I signed for it and glanced at the label — it was indeed addressed to my father.

“Do you want me to open it?” I asked aloud.

“Sure,” he replied. “Probably something from the office.”

I casually peeled off the tape, half-expecting to find documents or maybe a charger or some spare part.

But what I found instead stopped me cold.

A pr.eg.n.a.ncy test.

Positive.

And next to it, a printed note.

“Congratulations, darling! See you at the café at 7 p.m.”
Signed with a heart, and that unbearable little word: love.

I stared at the note. Then at the test. Then back again.

This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.

I reread the message, my thoughts tumbling. Was my father having an affair? Was the man I’d always trusted — always admired — sneaking around with a pr.e.g.n.a.nt mistress?.

I felt bile rise in my throat. My stomach churned. My hands began to shake uncontrollably.

I quickly gathered everything, stuffed it back into the box, and sealed it shut with trembling fingers.

The only person I could think of was my mother. Sweet, gentle, loving Mom.

She deserved to know the truth. But was it really my place to tell her?

Just then, the bathroom door opened and Dad walked out, drying his hands with a towel.

“What was it?” he asked casually.

I forced my face into a blank expression. “Uh… just a delivery. I didn’t look inside.”

He nodded and took it from me without hesitation.

But inside, I was reeling.

There was no way I could just sit back and let this go.

I had to get to the bottom of it. I had to find out who the woman was.

That very afternoon, I bundled into my coat and headed to the café mentioned in the note. My heart pounded furiously as I slipped into a corner booth.

I scanned the place, looking for any sign of the mysterious sender.

Could it be the blonde woman by the window? She looked about forty, alone, sipping wine.

But then a man slid into the seat beside her and I looked away.

I turned just in time to see someone familiar walk through the door.

It was my father.

He’d arrived right at 7:00 p.m.

No hesitation. No nervous glances. He walked in as if he belonged, tall and relaxed, scanning the café like any normal man would.

And in his hand?

A bouquet of red roses.

I clenched my fists under the table, my ears ringing. Roses? Really? For his mistress?

My heart beat like a drum inside my chest. I gripped my coffee, bracing myself for whatever was about to unfold.

I lowered my head slightly, tugging my hood up just enough to hide. I needed to see who he was meeting — but he couldn’t see me.

A few minutes passed. My whole body was tense.

Then the bell above the door jingled.

A woman walked in.

And I froze.

I knew her.

It was my mother.

For a moment, I thought I was imagining things. But no — it was really her, standing in the doorway, eyes searching the room.

Dad gasped, hands rising to his mouth.

What on earth…?

He stood, face lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. In just a few steps, he was across the café, pulling her into a tight embrace.

They laughed. They kissed. They whispered to each other as if no one else in the world existed — completely unaware that their daughter sat across the room, staring in open-mouthed shock.

And then, as Mom pulled back slightly, Dad leaned down and kissed her belly.

That’s when it hit me.

The gentle curve beneath her dress.

She was p.re.gn..a.nt.

My hands flew to my mouth. I nearly dropped my coffee.

With shaky fingers, I pulled out my phone, instinct taking over. I hit record.

I had to capture this.

All day, I’d been convinced my father was a lying cheater.

But he wasn’t.

He was just a hopelessly devoted husband, madly in love with his wife — who happened to be expecting.

That night, I sat in my apartment and watched the footage over and over again.

My parents — twenty years into their marriage — still looked at each other as if they’d only just fallen in love. I’d tortured myself with wild suspicions… only to realize how wildly wrong I’d been.

They were having a baby.

A baby.

I leaned back and let out a stunned, breathless laugh. “Unreal.”

For so long, it had been just the three of us. Me, their only child. The center of their world.

And now, at forty-two, my mother was beginning again?

I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

I played the video again, watching my father kiss her stomach, the way they whispered and laughed like teenagers.

It was simply too beautiful not to share.

Six months later, surrounded by friends and family at my mom’s baby shower, I stood in front of everyone and held up my phone.

“I have a story to tell,” I began, my voice shaking slightly, eyes twinkling as I looked at my parents — seated side by side, my father’s hand resting on her now very prominent bump.

They glanced at each other in confusion.

I pressed play.

The short video played across the screen — Dad kissing her belly, Mom laughing softly, the two of them lost in their own world.

The room filled with gasps and smiles.

And then I told the entire story.

How I’d found the box. How I thought the worst. How I had — yes, literally — stalked my own dad.

By the time I was finished, Dad was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. Mom gave me a gentle slap on the arm, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Olivia!” she scolded. “You thought your father was cheating on me?”

“I panicked!” I said, holding up my hands. “It’s not every day you find a p.re.gn..a.n.cy test addressed to your dad!”

Everyone roared with laughter. Dad wiped his eyes.

“Well,” he said, still chuckling, “that’s one way to give your daughter a heart attack.”

I looked around the room — at the people I loved, at my soon-to-be baby brother, at my parents still beaming like newlyweds — and knew in my heart that this was a story we’d never stop telling.

A story that began with fear and ended in pure, unexpected joy.