Infertility tore us apart—or so I believed until the day I saw her pushing a stroller.
For two years after the diagnosis, I choked down my fatherhood dreams to support her. When I finally left, I assumed we’d both face childless futures. But life had other plans—for her.
My accidental encounter with her pregnant belly and giggling son sent me spiraling into investigations that exposed everything: falsified medical records, a calculated divorce, and my life savings funding her new family.
Now remarried with a toddler of my own, I’ve found joy—but the scars of that betrayal still ache on rainy nights.
