The rain tapped my window as I clutched my stomach, still reeling from the pregnancy test: “Three pink lines that changed everything.” I was 28, pregnant by Alex Morrison, a married father of twins and my boss.
When I told him, his first response was, “Are you sure? What do you want to do about it?” Not love, just calculation. He promised time, but soon became distant.
Then came a call: “This is Christina Morrison. Alex’s wife.” Over coffee, she revealed, “Alex and I have been divorced for seven months.” He had lied, left her for another woman, and had a pattern of disappearing when things got “too complicated.”
Christina warned me: “He wants all the benefits of relationships without the responsibilities.” Instead of hatred, she offered support—for me and the baby.
Alex eventually vanished, but Christina and her sons embraced me. When my daughter Sophie was born, they became her family. As Christina said: “She’ll grow up thinking love is supposed to be abundant and unconditional.”
