On the morning of my daughter Lola’s fifth birthday, I should’ve been relaxing at a spa, letting lavender scents and soft music melt my stress away.
Instead, I was standing in a crowded café, watching a strange woman kiss my daughter’s cheek — while my husband, Peter, smiled beside her.
And that’s how I found out I’d been set up.
It started a week earlier. Nora, my mother-in-law, showed up waving a spa brochure, her voice dripping with forced sweetness.
“We booked you a spa day, Kelsey,” she said. “You deserve a break. Let us handle Lola’s party.”
Even Peter chimed in, urging me to say yes.
Exhausted and touched by what I thought was kindness, I agreed.
The spa day included everything — massages, facials, manicures — enough to fill an entire day. But just two hours in, something gnawed at me.
I couldn’t relax. I kept picturing Lola, the pink and gold plates we’d picked out together, the handmade decorations sitting in the hall closet.
Something felt wrong.
I left early, telling myself I’d pick up cupcakes before heading home.
But when I pulled into the driveway, my heart dropped.
No balloons. No music. No cars.
Just a silent house.
Then my neighbor Rachel waved me over, casually mentioning that everyone had already left — for a café party.
What party?
Panic gripped me. I raced across town, only to walk into a nightmare.
There was Lola, standing in the center of a pink-balloons-and-sugar-roses scene — but wearing a dress I hadn’t chosen, surrounded by strangers.
And there, holding her hand and grinning like he owned the world, was Peter — with another woman clinging to his arm.
They kissed Lola’s cheeks like a family portrait.
I stepped forward, my voice steady despite the chaos swirling inside me:
“What the hell is going on?”
The room froze.
Peter turned, pale. Nora and Phil looked like they’d been caught red-handed.
And that woman? She just smiled, like she belonged there.
Peter introduced her without a hint of shame.
“This is Madeline. She’s… part of our lives now. We wanted Lola to start getting used to her.”
My stomach twisted.
Then Lola spotted me. Her face lit up, and she ran into my arms, whispering:
“Grandma said you forgot about me.”
I held her tight, fighting tears.
“Never, baby. Never.”
I took Lola home, away from their circus of betrayal.
We had our own little party — just the two of us, with the homemade chocolate-strawberry cake we’d planned together.
Later that night, I handed Rachel a slice of cake and told her everything.
“I’m divorcing him,” I said, my voice firm.
Rachel nodded fiercely.
“And tomorrow,” she said, “we drink.”