“It’s not working, Daniel,” I said, staring at yet another negative pregnancy test. After six years of trying—IVF, hormones, even acupuncture—I was exhausted.
Daniel wrapped me in his arms. “Don’t give up. The doctor said we still have options.”
But I was 35 and tired of false hope. Tired of pretending Mother’s Day didn’t hurt. I just wanted peace. When Daniel left that morning, I expected flowers or maybe a pastry.
He came home with a baby.
Wrapped in yellow, tiny and perfect. “Her name’s Evie,” he said. “She needs a mom. You can be that for her.”
Shocked, I asked, “Where did she come from?”
“Don’t ask,” he replied. “Just trust me.”
But I couldn’t ignore the pit in my stomach.
Three days later, the truth came out. A young woman called me. She was Evie’s birth mother. Daniel had lied to her—said I couldn’t have children, offered her a place to live… in the apartment I inherited.
I confronted him. He didn’t deny it. Said he did it “for us.”
No paperwork. No adoption. Just betrayal.
I didn’t scream. I held Evie tighter.
The next day, I contacted a lawyer. Daniel had no legal rights to Evie. What he did was possibly criminal.
But I couldn’t lose her.
I reached out to the birth mother—Lacey. She agreed to a legal adoption. With me. Not Daniel.
I filed for divorce.
Daniel still texts, claiming he gave me everything I wanted.
But he didn’t give me Evie.
She chose me. And I chose her.
That’s what makes me a mother.
Leave a Reply