On my daughter Lola’s fifth birthday, I should’ve been relaxing at a spa, a surprise gift from my in-laws. They insisted I take a break while they handled the party. Exhausted and hesitant, I agreed, trusting them to follow my months of careful planning.
But as I lay on the massage table, a gut feeling told me something was wrong. I left early, only to find our house quiet—no signs of a birthday celebration. A neighbor told me the party had been moved without my knowledge.
I rushed to a local café and was stunned to see Lola in a different dress, surrounded by strangers, while my husband, Peter, stood arm-in-arm with a woman I’d never seen. His mistress. They’d thrown a party without me, and even worse, tried to introduce this woman as Lola’s “new mom.”
I confronted them. The betrayal was deep—Peter’s entire family had been in on it. But when Lola saw me, she ran into my arms, saying, “Grandma said you forgot about me.” That broke me.
I took her home, just the two of us. We lit new candles on the cake I’d baked, and she made a simple wish: that I’d always be there. I promised I would.
That night, I told my neighbor everything. And as I handed her a slice of cake, I knew what I had to do.
I was divorcing Peter. My daughter deserved better. So did I.
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