When Trevor said his company cut bonuses, I didn’t question the sudden budget cuts—cheaper detergent, no driving to work. “It’s healthier,” he said. I walked four miles daily, thinking we were sacrificing together.
Then I saw a message on his phone: “You better keep your promise. Or your wife finds out EVERYTHING.”
It was from his ex, Caroline. Turns out, he was sending her money—blackmailed to hide that he’d had a vasectomy before our marriage. I cried over infertility he knew was impossible.
I didn’t scream. I set a trap.
I faked a positive pregnancy test. When I told him, he panicked: “That’s not possible! I had a vasectomy!”
Gotcha.
I kicked him out, filed for divorce, and contacted Caroline. She revealed he’d lied to her too. She handed me proof of the vasectomy—and walked away from him years ago.
Now, I’ve started over across the country. With the help of a donor and a fertility clinic, I’m pregnant—for real this time.
To Trevor, I sent one message:
“Don’t waste gas trying to find me.”
