I thought Mother’s Day would hurt like always—until my husband walked in holding a baby. After six years of failed fertility treatments, I was ready to give up. But Daniel had always believed I’d be a mother. That morning, he said he had a surprise. I expected flowers. Not a newborn.
He called her Evie and told me not to ask questions. But something felt wrong. Days later, a young woman called—Evie’s birth mother. She said Daniel promised her safety, my inherited apartment, and that I would love the baby. That’s when I realized: he’d had an affair and used her child as some twisted gift.
I confronted him. He admitted it all but claimed he “just wanted to make me a mom.” I filed for divorce the next day. No adoption papers. No rights. Just betrayal.
But I didn’t want revenge—I wanted Evie. I called her birth mother and asked to adopt her legally. She said yes. Now, Evie is mine. Not because of Daniel, but because we chose each other. That’s what makes me a mother.
