His Other Baby

His Other Baby

Gavin

5.0
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I was heavily pregnant, nesting hard, and snagged some amazing Black Friday deals for our first baby. My husband, Mark, always seemed so supportive, or so I thought. I' m meticulous with money, kept my spreadsheet ready to pay my share. But then he saw the total on our joint credit card. His smile vanished, replaced by an accusing glare. "What' s this $200 charge? You're trying to hide something, aren't you? Trying to defraud me." The words echoed as he cornered me in Target, shoving my cart until baby diapers spilled everywhere. Then Tiffany appeared, Mark's "grieving widow" friend, who conveniently stumbled when I recoiled from her perfume. Mark erupted, slapping me across the face, roaring, "Did you just push a pregnant woman, Sarah?!" My water broke, but he ignored my pleas, insisting we go to customer service to dispute the $200. That $200 I' d Venmo'd to Tiffany months ago, to help her out. I collapsed. Later, in the hospital, recovering from an emergency C-section, I overheard him. He wasn't asking about our daughter, fighting for her life in the NICU. He was arranging a private room for Tiffany, who was also in labor. He casually dismissed our daughter's critical condition: "She'll be fine, they' re tough." The man I married had vanished, replaced by a cold stranger. How could he abandon me, prioritizing a seeming stranger over his own family? Why was Tiffany here, also in labor? The betrayal was sickening, leaving a gaping hole in my heart. Then, a hidden folder in his office revealed the horrifying truth. Prenatal records. Sonograms. Tiffany' s due date, identical to mine, linked directly to Mark' s vague "business trip." He wasn't just supporting a friend; he was the father of her child. Our marriage, our baby, everything was a lie. My grief hardened into an icy resolve: I called the best divorce attorney in the city.

Introduction

I was heavily pregnant, nesting hard, and snagged some amazing Black Friday deals for our first baby.

My husband, Mark, always seemed so supportive, or so I thought.

I' m meticulous with money, kept my spreadsheet ready to pay my share.

But then he saw the total on our joint credit card.

His smile vanished, replaced by an accusing glare.

"What' s this $200 charge? You're trying to hide something, aren't you? Trying to defraud me."

The words echoed as he cornered me in Target, shoving my cart until baby diapers spilled everywhere.

Then Tiffany appeared, Mark's "grieving widow" friend, who conveniently stumbled when I recoiled from her perfume.

Mark erupted, slapping me across the face, roaring, "Did you just push a pregnant woman, Sarah?!"

My water broke, but he ignored my pleas, insisting we go to customer service to dispute the $200.

That $200 I' d Venmo'd to Tiffany months ago, to help her out.

I collapsed.

Later, in the hospital, recovering from an emergency C-section, I overheard him.

He wasn't asking about our daughter, fighting for her life in the NICU.

He was arranging a private room for Tiffany, who was also in labor.

He casually dismissed our daughter's critical condition: "She'll be fine, they' re tough."

The man I married had vanished, replaced by a cold stranger.

How could he abandon me, prioritizing a seeming stranger over his own family?

Why was Tiffany here, also in labor?

The betrayal was sickening, leaving a gaping hole in my heart.

Then, a hidden folder in his office revealed the horrifying truth.

Prenatal records. Sonograms.

Tiffany' s due date, identical to mine, linked directly to Mark' s vague "business trip."

He wasn't just supporting a friend; he was the father of her child.

Our marriage, our baby, everything was a lie.

My grief hardened into an icy resolve: I called the best divorce attorney in the city.

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The Truth About His Mistress

The Truth About His Mistress

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I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

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