First time parents horrified to learn their pregnancy brings J.D. Vance joy

MANCHESTER, N.H. — After more than a decade of economic setbacks, climate-related anxieties, and what they describe as “a steadily collapsing empire,” Marco and Xio Delgado are finally expecting their first child — a moment of personal triumph they say has been tainted by the thought that it might please Vice President J.D. Vance.

“I mean, we’ve wanted this for so long,” said Marco, 36, a public school teacher who picked up gig work tutoring online and repairing bikes to scrape together savings. “We’re thrilled. But then Xio turned to me and said, ‘Wait, doesn’t this technically count as one of those babies J.D. Vance keeps begging Americans to have?’ And it just ruined the mood.”

Xio, 34, a barista-turned-data-entry-clerk who described her pregnancy as “both a miracle and a tax deduction,” said the realization was “like biting into a chocolate bar and realizing it’s filled with toothpaste and tradcath glee.”

“I know it’s a beautiful thing,” she added. “But then I pictured Vance smiling about it on that stained couch of his, scribbling a creepy letter in cursive and I felt the baby kick out of protest.”

As if on cue, Vice President Vance—who has long championed a quasi-apocalyptic natalism campaign he calls “Operation American Fertility Renaissance”—confirmed to Alpine 6 Action News that he was, in fact, overjoyed.

“I was sittin’ on the ol’ girl when I heard,” Vance said in an exclusive interview, referring to his couch, which appears to be upholstered in late-empire regret and dotted with what sources have described as “questionable yet persistent stains.”

“Marco and Xio—now that’s a strong American couple name combo. Like salsa meets industrial decline. I’m so proud of them,” he said while furiously scribbling on loose-leaf paper. “I even wrote ‘congrajulash—congradulat—congrat…’ damn, how do you spell that?”

Asked if he had any thoughts on the couple’s reluctance to be associated with his values, Vance chuckled.

“Oh, I’m used to that,” he said. “No one wants to admit they’re aligned with me. That’s why I’ve taken to just quietly celebrating on the couch. She understands me.”

When pressed for clarification, it remained unclear whether “she” referred to the couch or the fetus in Xio’s womb.

The Delgados, for their part, plan to continue preparing for their new arrival—while blocking Vance on social media and mailing the vice president a copy of “Eats, Shoots & Leaves” with the word congratulations underlined in permanent marker.

“We just want to raise our child with dignity, compassion, and a basic sense of irony,” Marco said. “And preferably, at least one degree of separation from that damn couch.”

About one week after the couple announced their pregnancy on Facebook, they received a greasy envelope that reeked of baby oil and polyester in the mail. It the vice president’s letter, written on ruled notebook paper with smudges on the corner and stains from substances they could only imagine.

Dear Marco and Xio,

Congradulashins.
No wait.
Congratyoulashuns.
Hold on.
I’ll circle back to that.

I heard y’all are havin’ a baby. That’s just the kind of news that makes a man lean back into his couch and feel proud to be alive. Not that I’m sayin’ your baby is mine. I mean, not biologically. That’d be a scandal. Unless you’re into that kind of thing. Which—hey, no judgment. Unless you’re into judgment. Then I’m judging respectfully.

Anyway. This is the American dream I talk about at pancake breakfasts and underground think tanks. You struggled, you doubted, and now, despite the constant drumbeat of collapsing systems, you did it—you conceived a unit of future GDP.

I’m writin’ this from the couch. She’s seen things. Some say she’s got the wisdom of a thousand C-SPAN reruns embedded deep in her fabric. She says “hi,” by the way. Not in words. In spirit.

Back to the point: your baby matters. Not because of who you are personally, but because this nation needs numbers, damn it. Fertility is patriotism, and if that makes you mad, just remember—you chose to bring life into the world during my term. That’s practically a campaign endorsement.

Keep up the good work. I’ll send you a gift basket made of denim, pork rinds, and three copies of Hillbilly Elegy for the nursery.

Your public servant,
(signed in increasingly shaky pen strokes)
Vice President J.D. Vance
& The Couch

When Marco and Xio received Vance’s handwritten note—smudged, slightly oily, and folded around what appeared to be a beef jerky coupon—they responded with a mix of amusement, horror, and secondhand embarrassment.

“I didn’t know it was possible to feel both pandered to and vaguely threatened by a single paragraph,” said Xio, holding the letter with salad tongs. “It’s like if Norman Rockwell collaborated with QAnon and spilled nacho grease on the final draft.”

Marco was more blunt: “We’re going to frame it and hang it over the diaper bin. That way, every time we’re elbows-deep in something awful, we’ll remember who else sent us something brown and confusing.”

As for the gift basket Vance promised?

“We’re not letting anything from that couch within 500 feet of the baby,” Xio said. “We’ve been through enough.”