My Best Friend’s Ex Got Me Pregnant. I Kept It and Told Her I Didn’t Know Who the Dad Was.
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
There’s a rule you don’t break. It’s not written down anywhere, but every girl knows it: your best friend’s ex is permanently off-limits. Not for a rebound. Not for a drunk kiss. Not for “closure.” Not ever.
I broke it on a random Thursday.
It had been almost a year since my best friend, let’s call her Ava, and her ex, let’s call him Marcus, split. Their relationship was messy but dramatic in that early-twenties, all-or-nothing kind of way. They blocked each other, unblocked each other, subtweeted each other. Eventually it fizzled out into indifference. Or at least that’s what I told myself.
I ran into Marcus at a bar downtown — the kind with sticky floors and neon beer signs that make everyone look hotter than they are. I hadn’t seen him since the breakup. He looked different. Less angry.
We started talking. It felt harmless at first. Catching up. Laughing about old stories. He bought me a drink. Then another. I remember thinking, This isn’t a betrayal. It’s just conversation.
But conversation turned into dancing. Dancing turned into lingering touches. And when he leaned in and kissed me outside the bar, I didn’t stop him.
I wish I could say it was some grand, passionate, irresistible moment. It wasn’t. It was impulsive and reckless and fueled by tequila and nostalgia. I went home with him. I crossed the line.
The next morning, reality set in like a migraine. He looked just as shocked as I felt. We both knew what it meant. Not the pregnancy — that hadn’t happened yet — but the betrayal. The unspoken rule shattered.
We agreed it was a mistake. A one-time thing. We wouldn’t tell Ava. We’d pretend it never happened.
I remember thinking, 'This isn’t a betrayal. It’s just conversation.'
Three weeks later, I was staring at two pink lines in my bathroom.
I sat on the edge of the tub for almost an hour. My hands were shaking. I hadn’t been seeing anyone seriously, but I had gone on a couple of casual dates that month. Enough to make things complicated.
When I told Marcus, he went quiet. Not cruel. Not dismissive. Just stunned. He said he’d support whatever decision I made. But I could see the fear in his eyes. Not just about becoming a father — but about Ava finding out.
I thought about every possible outcome. Telling her the truth. Losing her forever. Keeping the baby and raising it alone. Ending the pregnancy and burying the whole mess.
In the end, I surprised myself.
I kept it.
Not because it was easy. Not because it was romantic. But because, somewhere under the panic, I felt certain. I wanted this baby.
The harder part was telling Ava.
We were sitting in her apartment, surrounded by takeout containers, when I finally blurted it out.
“I’m pregnant.”
She screamed. Hugged me. Cried. Asked a million questions. And then came the one I’d been dreading.
“Who’s the dad?”
Time slowed. My heart pounded so loudly I thought she could hear it.
“I don’t know,” I said.
The lie slid out smoother than I expected.
Technically, it wasn’t impossible. I’d had those casual dates. There was enough gray area to make it believable. I leaned into that uncertainty, let her fill in the blanks.
She looked concerned but not suspicious. “You’ll figure it out,” she said. “Either way, I’ve got you.”
That was the worst part.
Her loyalty.
Every doctor’s appointment she offered to attend. Every Pinterest board she sent me. Every time she put her hand on my stomach and called the baby “our little peanut.”
Three weeks later, I was staring at two pink lines in my bathroom.
Marcus and I kept our distance. We spoke quietly about logistics. He wanted to be involved, but discreetly. He understood why I hadn’t told her — even if it made him look like a coward.
Sometimes I justify it by telling myself I was protecting her. She’d moved on. She was dating someone new. Why reopen an old wound?
But if I’m honest, I was protecting myself.
I couldn’t bear the idea of losing her.
Now I’m seven months along. The baby kicks constantly, like a reminder that secrets don’t stay quiet forever. Marcus and I have started talking about what happens after the birth. About last names. About honesty.
Because here’s what I know: this lie has an expiration date.
Babies have eyes. Features. Familiar expressions.
One day, she might look at my child and see him.
And when that day comes, I’ll have to decide whether the truth is worth the fallout.
I broke the rule once. I’m not sure how many more times I can live with doing it every single day.
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