For years, Aiden and I tried to have a baby. Every failed test broke me, until one day—two pink lines. I was finally pregnant. Overwhelmed with joy, I told Aiden, expecting him to celebrate. But his reaction was cold. Distant. Almost… resentful.

I hoped it was shock. But days passed, and he grew more withdrawn. He suggested visiting his mother, Gloria. I didn’t expect warmth—but I wasn’t ready for cruelty. “If it’s a girl,” she said coldly, “you’ll have to leave.”

I stared at Aiden, waiting for him to defend me. He didn’t.

Then came the truth. Veronica. A name from his past—someone he hadn’t let go of. My world shattered. The man who once held my dreams now held secrets and silence.

So I made a choice. I packed my bags, left him a note: I’m done. I went to my sister’s. No more pretending. No more waiting for him to love our child.

That night, I sat in the nursery alone. But I wasn’t broken. I was free.

I wasn’t just someone’s wife. I was a mother now.

And my daughter would never grow up begging for love. She would see strength—starting with me.