She nodded, making a note on the chart. “And when did the symptoms start?”
“Four days ago. The nausea came first, then the fatigue.”
Another note. “Any changes in diet or routine? New medications? Recent travel?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing changed. Except—“ I hesitated, then forced myself to continue. “Except I had a positive home test this morning. Pregnancy test.”
The doctor’s expression didn’t change—no surprise, no judgment, just the careful neutrality of someone who’d heard it all before. “I see,” she said. “And when was your last period?”
The question landed between us like a stone. I stared at her, trying to work out if she’d misheard me, if there was some other explanation for the question. “I don’t have periods,” I said finally. “I’m male.”
Now her expression did change—a slight raising of the eyebrows, a reassessment. “I apologize,” she said. “The chart didn’t specify. Let me order a blood test to confirm the home result, and we can go from there.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her with the same soft click. I sat on the exam table with my paper gown crinkling under my palms and tried to make sense of what was happening.
Twenty minutes later, she was back, a folder in her hand and a nurse behind her with what looked like ultrasound equipment. “The blood test is positive,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “You’re pregnant, Mr. Reyes. About eight weeks along, based on the hormone levels.”
I opened my mouth to tell her she had to be mistaken, that what she was saying wasn’t physically possible, that there had to be some other explanation for the test results. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, I heard myself say, “That’s not possible. I’m an alpha.”
The doctor’s expression didn’t change. “I understand that’s what you believe,” she said. “But the bloodwork doesn’t lie. Your hormone levels are consistent with early pregnancy in an omega carrier.”
Omega. The word hung in the air between us, too definitive to take back, too certain to qualify. I’d been an alpha my entire life—had the physical build, the dominant nature, the designation confirmed by three separate tests before I was ten. Had built my understanding of myself around that certainty for thirty years.
Had never once questioned it until this moment, watching the doctor’s face as she absorbed my response without visible reaction.
“I’d like to do an ultrasound,” she said after a moment. “To confirm the pregnancy and get a more accurate timeline. Is that alright with you?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and lay back on the exam table as directed. The nurse helped position me, then applied gel to my abdomen—cold, slippery, an invasion of a space I’d never thought to protect. The doctor moved the wand across my skin with practiced attention, her eyes on the screen beside the table.
“There it is,” she said, her voice warming with what sounded like genuine pleasure. “Right there. See the heartbeat?”
She turned the screen toward me, pointing to a small, unmistakable shape tucked into the gray landscape of my insides. A peanut with a flutter in the center—too small to be real, too definite to deny.
“That’s your baby,” the doctor said, her voice gentle. “About eight weeks along, developing exactly as it should be. Strong heartbeat, good positioning, everything looks perfect.”
I stared at the screen, unable to look away from the tiny, perfect shape that was somehow part of me. A baby. My baby. A physical impossibility that was currently displayed in living grayscale on the exam room monitor.
“I don’t understand,” I said finally, the words coming out rougher than I’d intended. “I’ve been an alpha my entire life. My parents had me tested. Three separate times. The results were definitive.”
The doctor was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Designation can be complicated,” she said carefully. “There are cases where someone presents as one designation, but has the biological characteristics of another. It’s rare, but it happens. Usually there’s a genetic component—something that runs in the family, often on the mother’s side.”
My mother. Who’d always insisted I took after her side of the family. Who’d never quite met my eyes when talking about my alpha status. Who’d changed the subject whenever my father brought up the tests, the results, the absolute certainty that I was exactly what he’d wanted me to be.
A lie. Thirty years of my life, built on a foundation that had never existed.
“The follow-up bloodwork should give us more information,” the doctor continued. “I’ve ordered a full hormonal panel and genetic screening. We’ll know more in a few days.”
She printed the ultrasound image—the tiny peanut with its fluttering heart now captured on glossy paper—and handed it to me with careful attention. “Your next appointment is in two weeks,” she said. “We’ll check your progress and answer any questions you have. In the meantime, prenatal vitamins, noalcohol, and try to eat small, frequent meals to help with the nausea.”
I nodded, unable to process the practical details when my entire understanding of myself was coming apart at the seams. The doctor seemed to sense this—her expression softened, her voice gentled.
“It’s a lot to take in,” she said. “I’ve written down the number for a counselor who specializes in designation issues. She’s very good—helps people process exactly this kind of situation. No pressure, but the option’s there if you want it.”
I took the card she offered, folded it into my pocket without looking at it, then changed back into my clothes while she and the nurse stepped out. The paper gown went into the trash with a rustle that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
My clothes felt strange against my skin—like they belonged to someone else, someone who hadn’t just had their entire life upended in the space of twenty minutes.
The drive home took three hours. I drove with the windows down despite the November chill, cold air hitting my face as the valley spread out around me—mountains to the east, pasture to the west, sky overhead so clear I could pick out individual stars as the light faded.
