Three weeks before my due date, I went into labor. I called my husband from the hospital, expecting panic, urgency—love. Instead, I got calm indifference. “I can’t be there,” he said. “This meeting could change everything for us.” I begged. He promised to “make it up to me” and hung up.
I gave birth alone, surrounded by strangers. Nurses held my hand. A kind doctor whispered encouragement. But the father of my child was nowhere. Fourteen hours later, I sent him a photo of our daughter’s tiny face. No reply.
The next morning, I learned the truth. He hadn’t been in a boardroom. He’d been on a weekend getaway—with a woman from his office.
Days later, he arrived with flowers and excuses. I handed him divorce papers instead of the baby.
He chose his “more important” plans. I chose my dignity.
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come with shouting—it comes with silence, absence, and a bouquet of lies. But sometimes, the ending isn’t what they expect.
