I expected a quiet Mother’s Day, maybe a card from my husband. Instead, he brought home a baby—a living, breathing child who wasn’t ours. The truth behind her arrival turned my life upside down.
Another negative pregnancy test stared back at me. “I can’t keep doing this, John,” I said, exhausted after six years of trying. He pulled me close. “We’re not done, Emily. There are still ways.” His steady voice was my lifeline. “Three IVFs, every specialist, even that weird tea your cousin sent,” I said, voice breaking. “I’m 34. When do we stop?” He touched my cheek. “You’ll be a phenomenal mom. I’m sure of it.” John’s hope never faltered, even after three miscarriages, always supporting me through every setback.
John was my rock, researching treatments, comforting me, never wavering. “Stress makes it harder,” he said. “Let’s take a break.” I sighed, resting against him. “I’m so tired of hoping.” He smiled. “Our life started when we said ‘I do.’ This is just more.” That was John—always optimistic, surprising me with breakfast, enduring my brother’s long dinners. As Mother’s Day approached, he wanted to plan something. “Please, no,” I said. “It’s too painful.” He agreed, promising a low-key day.
When John left that morning for a “quick errand,” I thought maybe coffee. But he returned with a baby, swaddled in pink, tiny eyes blinking. I stood stunned. “John, whose is she?” He grinned. “She needs you, Emily. Her name’s Mia.” She was perfect, and I held her, heart pounding. “Just trust me,” he said. I called my sister, Rachel, that night. “He just showed up with a baby?” she said, shocked. “You need adoption papers, a birth certificate!” I admitted John was vague. “He says he’ll handle it,” I told her, but doubt crept in.
John’s secretive calls all week worried me. On Tuesday, a woman called. “I’m Mia’s mom, Kayla,” she said softly. “John said you’d love her, that you couldn’t have kids. He gave me your apartment.” My heart sank. It was my aunt’s apartment, meant for a charity. “I’m 20,” she said. “I couldn’t be a mom.” John had cheated, used my property, and taken her baby. When he got home, I held Mia, voice calm. “Kayla called. I know.” He admitted it, saying, “I wanted you to have a baby. She didn’t want her.” I shook my head. “You lied and cheated. For me?”
His excuse—doing it for us—felt hollow. “You have Mia now,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?” I replied, “You broke us.” That night, I held Mia, crying. I consulted a lawyer, learning John’s actions were illegal, with no adoption process. But Mia was mine. I called Kayla, offering a legal adoption with me alone. She agreed, grateful. I filed for divorce, kept the apartment, and ensured John paid all fees. He texts, saying he gave me my dream. But Mia and I built our bond, and that’s what makes me her mother.
