I never imagined my husband and his mother could betray me, but their voices revealed the truth. I’m Jessica, and my newborn daughter, Mia, is my heart. Just weeks old, her soft coos fill my soul. My husband, Chris, barely acknowledges her. One evening, I stood by the stove, waiting for dinner to finish, drained but brimming with love for Mia. Earlier, I’d seen Chris sprawled on the couch, scrolling his phone while Mia cried in her bassinet. Her whimpers didn’t stir him. “She’s crying again,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his screen. I lifted her, calming her, but his indifference cut deep. “She’s a baby,” I said. “Try holding her.” He sighed, “She’s always fussy.”
Mia finally dozed off, nestled with her stuffed bear. Heading to the kitchen for her bottle, I overheard Chris and his mother, Diane, whispering. “We’ll tell her at dinner,” Diane said. Chris replied, “The DNA test will say Mia’s not mine. Jessica won’t fight—she’s too meek.” My breath caught. Diane laughed. “Your brother faked the results. Simple.” Chris added, “Then we sell the house. Her parents gave it, but I’m on the deed. I’ll take my cut.” Diane agreed. “No job means tiny child support. She’ll stay silent.” Their chuckles froze me.
Rage replaced shock. They thought I’d fold, but they didn’t know a mother’s strength. That night, I fed Mia in her soft-lit room, planning. Chris’s phone was my first step. He left it charging, and his heavy sleep let me take it. In the bathroom, I unlocked it with his old passcode and found messages from three women: Rachel, Kate, and Lauren. Rachel planned to redecorate our house. Kate wanted trips with Chris’s money. Lauren asked if I’d resist their love. I sent their numbers to myself, covered my tracks, and stared at my reflection, fury rising. Chris was a stranger now.
The next morning, Diane found me in the kitchen, eating eggs she didn’t share. “We’re having a dinner Sunday to celebrate Mia,” she said, her smile hollow. I saw her ploy but nodded. “Sounds nice,” I said. I spent the week contacting Chris’s women, readying my move. At Diane’s dinner, Chris glanced at a manila envelope, and Diane eyed me smugly. “Mia’s settled?” she asked, passing carrots. “She’s okay,” I said. After a tense meal, Diane served cake and spoke. “We have news,” she said, sliding the envelope to me. “DNA results confirm our fears.”
I opened the fake papers and smirked. “Clever,” I said. Chris stammered, “What?” I pulled out my envelope. “The hospital tested Mia’s DNA at birth, Chris. Routine check. You’d know if you cared.” Diane grabbed it, seeing the hospital’s 100% match. I added, “I invited guests.” I called Lauren, and three women entered. “Meet Rachel, Kate, and Lauren,” I said. Rachel spoke of house plans, Kate of trips, and Lauren of love. Chris choked, Diane blanched. I said, “The house is mine, Chris. My parents ensured it. Your name’s not on it. And you’ll owe real child support.”
Mia fussed, and I stood. “Thanks for dinner. My baby needs me.” I left, ignoring Chris’s apologies and Diane’s calls. My dad hired movers to pack Chris’s things for Diane’s. I blocked them. The divorce was quick, the house mine, with a clause for Mia. Now, Mia sleeps well, all smiles. Chris is still at Diane’s, I hear. They thought I’d shatter, but I kept my home, my daughter, and my resolve. Best of all, I saved Mia from a father who’d never love her, giving her a life full of the care she deserves.
