What made you take 20 pregnancy tests?

The Impossible Diagnosis and Abandonment

At 22 years old, I was a proud college virgin. So, when fatigue and nausea hit during finals week, I thought it was just too much coffee and Panda Express.

8 weeks pregnant, the technician said, showing me the heartbeat on the screen. I laughed, explaining they’d made a mistake, but the doctor’s expression shifted from routine to alarmed as she ordered immediate testing.

Every test came back normal. Hormone levels, thyroid, everything perfectly of a pregnant woman.

My mom accused me of lying when I told her.

actually said, “Just tell us who the father is.” In that disappointed voice she used when I was 16 and lied about a party.

My dad sat silent and my boyfriend Patty went from supportive to suspicious when I couldn’t explain how this happened. I started recording myself sleeping, convinced I was doing something I didn’t remember.

Still nothing. The police opened an investigation after I begged them to do a grape kit, but the toxicology came back clean.

I remember feeling almost disappointed. They ran DNA on the fetus, but the lab called it corrupted, then inconclusive, then finally admitted they’d never seen results like this.

Couldn’t even confirm it was fully human DNA. My hands were shaking so bad I dropped the phone.

I started keeping a journal, documenting everything, convinced I’d see a lamp staring back at me one day. But the entries were consistent.

My mom started leaving parenting pamphlets about honesty around my apartment like passive aggressive landmines.

While Patty’s questions got more accusatory, asking if maybe I forgot about someone else or blacked out at a party I never attended with alcohol I never drank. I let him smell my breath every morning for a week.

Even gave him all my passwords. But the doubt in his eyes was poisoning everything.

Word got around fast, and that same week, my employer suggested I take unpaid leave because clients were uncomfortable. This left me with no income and mounting medical bills.

I was crying to my boyfriend at the local cafe when a random man walked up to our table.

“I am the father of your child,” he recited.

Before I could respond, he continued, “Remember we hooked up at that guy’s party sometime this year? You were wearing that outfit you said you love, and we talked about Netflix.” Patty’s chair scraped against the floor so loud everyone turned to stare.

He screamed that I was either a liar or insane before walking out.

I’d never seen this man before in my life. The stranger tried to follow me home, holding up his phone, trying to get me to act like I knew him on camera.

So, I screamed, “This man is trying to touch my butt.” until he finally ran away.

But the damage was done. By morning, my dad had stopped returning my calls, and social services launched an investigation into my fitness as a mother. They interviewed neighbors about my mental state.

The case workers notes, which I glimpsed when she shifted her clipboard, used words like delusional and potential harm to child. Genetic specialists from John’s Hopkins flew in, running tests that had never been performed on a human before.

Even my mom gave up on me after she saw protesters with signs outside their house.

Update: 7 months pregnant, living on savings. I had to choose between keeping a baby that destroyed my life, adoption to strangers, or termination, which felt wrong somehow.

The DNA results got leaked showing anomalies inconsistent with standard human reproduction, which only fueled more conspiracy theories. And unfortunately, when I pushed the baby out, she looked completely normal.

10 fingers, 10 toes, healthy cry. It somehow made everything worse because there was still no explanation.

I studied her face for hours, looking for something alien, something that would explain everything. But she just looked like my baby.

My dad showed up to the hospital 2 hours later, standing in the doorway holding a teddy bear, avoiding eye contact.

“She deserves family,” he said, which made me smile.

He moved into my studio apartment, slept on the couch, and helped with night feedings while carefully never asking about the father.