I never planned to be anyone’s secret. Nazir, 42, admitted he had a wife, Farah, and a daughter. “We’re basically roommates,” he told me. I believed him enough—until I found out I was pregnant.
When I told him, he froze: “We can’t do this. I have a life. I have a daughter.” He disappeared, and I prepared to raise the baby alone. Months later, he returned, asking about ultrasounds, sending Farsi lullabies, and even crying at an appointment. Then he confessed: “Farah knows… She wants to meet you.”
At a café, Farah said, “I’ve known about other women. You’re not the first. But this is the first child.” She surprised me: “I used to be a doula… I can be in the room. Just say the word.”
When labor came, Nazir was late. I called Farah. She held my hand as I gave birth to Daryan. Two months later, she left Nazir: “The baby changed everything. I finally realized how much of my life I’ve spent waiting to matter.”
Now, Farah and I are allies, raising Daryan in our own messy, unexpected family.
