I couldn’t believe my husband and his mother would scheme against me, but their words proved it. I’m Sarah, and my newborn daughter, Ava, is my world. At a few weeks old, her sleepy cuddles melt my heart. My husband, Ryan, barely glances at her. One afternoon, I leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting for the oven to finish baking dinner, tired but full of love for Ava. Earlier, I’d watched Ryan sit on the couch, glued to his phone while Ava fussed in her crib. Her tiny cries didn’t move him. “She’s at it again,” he grumbled, scrolling. I picked her up, soothing her, but his detachment hurt. “She’s a baby,” I said. “Maybe hold her?” He shrugged, “She just cries.”
After hours of rocking, Ava finally slept, tucked with her stuffed elephant. Heading to the kitchen for her bottle, I overheard Ryan and his mother, Linda, whispering. “We’ll break it to her at dinner,” Linda said. Ryan replied, “The DNA test will say Ava’s not mine. Sarah won’t argue—she’s too timid.” My stomach dropped. Linda smirked. “Your aunt faked the papers easily.” Ryan added, “We’ll sell the house. Her parents gave it to us, but I’m on the deed. I’ll take my half.” Linda nodded. “With no job, you’ll pay her pennies for support. She’ll stay quiet.” Their laughter chilled me.
Anger surged. They thought I’d crumble, but they didn’t know a mother’s fire. That night, I fed Ava in her dim room, plotting. Ryan’s phone was my key. He left it charging, and his deep sleep let me grab it. In the bathroom, I unlocked it with his old passcode and found texts from three women: Tara, Lisa, and Emma. Tara planned to move into our house. Lisa dreamed of trips with Ryan’s money. Emma asked if I’d fight their love. I sent their numbers to myself, erased my tracks, and faced the mirror, my resolve steel. Ryan was a traitor now.
The next day, Linda approached me in the kitchen, eating toast she didn’t offer. “We’re hosting a dinner Sunday to celebrate Ava,” she said, her warmth fake. I saw her scheme but smiled. “Can’t wait,” I said. I spent the week contacting Ryan’s women, setting my trap. At Linda’s dinner, Ryan eyed a manila envelope nervously, and Linda watched me like a hawk. “Ava’s okay?” she asked, passing bread. “She’s fine,” I said. After a quiet meal, Linda served pie and spoke. “We have something to share,” she said, pushing the envelope toward me. “DNA results confirm our doubts.”
I opened the fake papers and laughed. “Nice try,” I said. Ryan stuttered, “What?” I pulled out my envelope. “The hospital tested Ava’s DNA at birth, Ryan. Standard procedure. You’d know if you paid attention.” Linda snatched it, seeing the hospital’s 100% match. I continued, “I invited guests.” I called Emma, and three women walked in. “Meet Tara, Lisa, and Emma,” I said. Tara spoke of house plans, Lisa of vacations, and Emma of love. Ryan gasped, Linda froze. I added, “The house is mine, Ryan. My parents made sure. Your name’s not on it. And you’ll owe real child support.”
Ava fussed, and I stood. “Dinner was great, but my baby needs me.” I left, ignoring Ryan’s pleas and Linda’s calls. My dad sent movers to pack Ryan’s things for Linda’s house. I blocked them. The divorce was smooth, the house mine, with a clause for Ava. Now, Ava sleeps peacefully, all giggles. Ryan’s still at Linda’s, I hear. They thought I’d break, but I kept my home, my daughter, and my power. Most importantly, I freed Ava from a father who’d never cherish her, ensuring she grows up surrounded by love.
