and? realistically you’ll just cry about it for a bit then move on to the next guy but if it was me, id track this guy down, case the house, get a sense for his routines. catch him alone, blowdart to the neck. this is the tricky part. open up his balls. take the nuts out leave the sac. you’re going to want to leave two ball-sized chunks of surgical-grade silicone in there instead. then dip. he wakes up in bed, maybe even next to the girl. or on the street, whatever. everything seems fine at first, but then things start changing. he’s got less energy. less passion. his muscles turn into flab, he starts developing a potbelly. he starts crying at movies. but before these symptoms reach a worrying head, thats right when you show up. please, tell me you didn’t throw those balls in the trash before pressing some juice for yourself. by now you have a bun well in the oven, and it’s his. but you’re in the third trimester, and they’ve been together a year and a half, the timeline just doesn’t add up. what to do? now his sudden deficiency of masculine chutzpah gets blamed on the ongoing paternity case and the fact that the girl jumped ship, whether because of his alleged philandering or the fact that he can’t maintain an erection. it’s an airtight plan, but if you don’t like playing the long game, go for the standard murder-suicide. they’ll still get the idea.