For six years, I endured the agony of infertility—IVF, hormone therapy, acupuncture—each failure chipping away at my hope. My husband, Daniel, remained my rock, but I was done. I told him I couldn’t face another Mother’s Day, surrounded by happy families. I needed space. That morning, expecting pastries, I was floored when he walked in with a baby girl, Evie, declaring, “She needs a mom.”
I was overwhelmed, instantly smitten, but uneasy. Daniel dodged questions about Evie’s origins, urging trust. Then Lacey, her birth mother, called, exposing Daniel’s betrayal. He’d cheated, promised her my inherited apartment, and manipulated her into giving up Evie, claiming I was infertile. He admitted it, saying it was for us. It wasn’t love—it was deceit.
I learned Daniel’s actions weren’t legal adoption. I couldn’t lose Evie, so I proposed a legal adoption to Lacey, who agreed. I filed for divorce, secured my apartment, and made Daniel pay legal fees. He insists he gave me my dream, but Evie and I chose each other. That’s what makes me her mother.
