Six years after our breakup, I sat in his emergency room. "I'm pregnant, and the baby is yours." His face turned livid. "What kind of baby takes six years to gestate?" The atmosphere turned awkward to the extreme. "You're not going to acknowledge it?" "Do you think I'm going to take the blame?" he retorted. I fell silent for a few seconds. "Fine, then I'll find someone else to be the father." Nine months later. He fiercely grabbed the attending doctor. "Buddy, please, make sure you stitch her up nicely. She loves her appearance."