At seven months pregnant with twins, I believed the worst I’d face was back pain and sleepless nights—not a betrayal that would shake my world. That illusion shattered when I received a message from my husband’s boss, Veronica. It was a photo of Eric, shirtless and smiling in her bed, with the caption: “He’s mine now.” When Eric walked through the door that evening, he didn’t even try to lie. He was leaving me—for her. As I stood there stunned, trying to breathe through heartbreak, the final blow came fast: Veronica offered to buy one of my babies.
She stood in my living room, completely composed, and said I’d have an “easier time” raising just one child. She promised to give the other “a life of luxury,” if I handed the baby over. I felt sick—but I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I smiled and told her I’d agree… on one condition: I would be the one to choose which baby she could have. Veronica, arrogant and sure of her power, accepted. She even bought me a house—what she didn’t know was I had the deed written in my name only and was carefully documenting every message, every offer, every twisted word.