He Didn’t Bring Flowers on Mother’s Day. He Brought a Baby.

On Mother’s Day, I expected flowers. Maybe a cake. Instead, Daniel walked in holding a baby.

Not ours. Just… a baby.

Weeks earlier, I’d cried over another failed IVF. Daniel promised we’d keep trying. I couldn’t. I was exhausted—physically, emotionally. But he held onto hope.

When he said he was going out to get something special, I expected tulips. Not a newborn wrapped in yellow.

“This is your dream, right?” he said.

Her name was Evie. And the moment I held her, something broke open inside me.

But questions haunted me. No paperwork. No explanation. Daniel just said, “Trust me.”

Then a young woman called.

“I’m Evie’s birth mother,” she said through tears. “Daniel promised you’d love her. He gave me an apartment… the one you inherited.”

He’d cheated. Lied. Manipulated a twenty-year-old into handing over her baby—our baby now.

I confronted him. He admitted it.

“You have Evie,” he said. “Isn’t that what matters?”

No, Daniel. What matters is choice. Truth. Respect.

I called a lawyer. Filed for divorce. And asked Lacey, Evie’s birth mom, if she’d let me adopt her—alone.

She said yes.

Daniel didn’t give me a child.

Evie chose me. And I chose her.