I used to think happiness was fragile—something that could shatter at any moment. Especially after my first husband vanished when I told him I was pregnant.
I raised Sophie alone until Brian came along—steady, kind, everything her father wasn’t. He loved Sophie like his own. She even started calling him “Dad.”
But not everyone accepted her.
Brian’s mother, Evelyn, never saw Sophie as family. She called her a “tag-along” and made it clear she wasn’t welcome. So we kept our distance—until a work emergency left us with no one else to watch Sophie. Reluctantly, we left her with Evelyn.
Four days. That’s all it was supposed to be.
But Evelyn stopped answering Sophie’s calls. No updates. No photos. Just silence.
When we rushed home, Sophie was gone.
Evelyn looked me in the eye and said, “She’s not your real child. I sent her somewhere better.”
We searched all night—and finally found her at a tennis boarding school. Alone. Confused. Heartbroken.
She ran into my arms crying, “I thought you didn’t want me.”
“We were looking everywhere,” I said, sobbing. “You are our family.”
Later that night, we returned to Evelyn’s.
“You’ll never see any of your grandchildren again,” I said.
Evelyn sneered. “I don’t have grandchildren.”
I placed a hand on my belly. “I’m pregnant.”
She lit up—until Brian added, “That’s my second child. The first is in the car. And you’re not seeing either.”
“You turned him against me!” she yelled.
“No,” I said. “You did that yourself.”
And I walked away—to my daughter, my husband, my growing family. The family I chose. The family that chose me.
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