After six exhausting years of infertility—IVF cycles, hormone shots, even desperate acupuncture appointments—I felt drained and defeated. Daniel, my husband, remained hopeful through it all. But I was done. I told him I couldn’t handle another Mother’s Day watching happy families and crayon-colored cards. I needed to be alone with my grief.
That morning, he told me he had a surprise. I expected croissants or a simple bouquet. But instead, he came home holding a baby girl. Tiny. Beautiful. A stranger—and yet not.
“This is Evie,” he said softly. “She needs a mother. And I knew you were meant to be one.”
My world tilted. I was shocked, confused, and yet part of me instantly connected with her. Still, something didn’t sit right. Daniel wouldn’t say where she came from. All he offered was: “Just trust me.”
Then I got a call from a young woman named Lacey. She was scared. And she was Evie’s birth mother.
Daniel had convinced her to give him the baby, promising her security—my apartment, the one I inherited. He told her I couldn’t have children. That part was true. But he left out the rest: he had lied, cheated, manipulated her—and me.
When I confronted him, he didn’t deny any of it. “I did it for us,” he said. “You’re a mother now.”
But that wasn’t love. That was betrayal.
The next day, I contacted a lawyer. Daniel hadn’t legally adopted Evie. What he did may have crossed a line. But I couldn’t imagine letting her go.
I called Lacey again. I asked if she would consider a legal adoption—just with me. She cried. Then said yes.
I filed for divorce. Kept my apartment. And made Daniel pay for every court fee. He still sends messages, claiming he gave me the greatest gift. But he’s wrong.
Evie wasn’t his to give. She chose me. And I chose her. That’s what makes me her mother.