The birth of my twin daughters was meant to be the happiest day of my life. After years of struggling to conceive, holding them felt like a dream—until my husband, Mark, accused me of cheating.
When I sent him a photo of our girls, he responded coldly: “This isn’t what I wanted. I needed boys.” My heart shattered. He stormed out, leaving me alone in the hospital. He ignored my calls, and when I took the babies to my parents’ house, he accused me again: “These can’t be my kids.”
Hoping for support, I reached out to his mother, Sharon, but her message crushed me further—she also accused me of betrayal. I felt like a failure, but looking at my daughters, I vowed to stay strong.
With Mark gone, I contacted a lawyer. “With his abandonment, we have a strong case,” he assured me. I focused on raising my girls, sharing their milestones online. Time passed, and I moved on.
Eventually, I divorced Mark. He had no choice but to take responsibility. One day, Sharon sent a final message—maybe an apology, maybe more insults. I deleted it unread. Some things are better left unknown.
