I planned Eli’s 30th birthday party thinking it would be a celebration of our growing family. I was eight months pregnant, exhausted, and clinging to hope. But the signs were there—late nights, secretive phone calls, and a message that shattered me: “You’re worth the risk.” I didn’t confront him. I collected evidence. I needed undeniable proof.
With help from my best friend Maya, I stuffed a giant piñata with screenshots, hotel receipts, and photos. When Eli cracked it open in front of friends and family, his secrets spilled out like confetti. The room froze. His charm dissolved. I stood tall, hand on my belly, and said, “Happy birthday, Eli. Hope she was worth it.”
Days later, the knock at my door wasn’t closure—it was chaos. A young woman named Lauren stood trembling, pregnant with Eli’s child. He’d told her I was his crazy ex and she’d be moving in after I gave birth. My world tilted again. We were both victims of his lies, both carrying his children, both betrayed.
I exposed him on Tinder, rewrote his bio, printed flyers, and posted them everywhere. Lauren and I became allies. His parents supported us, ashamed of their son. Eli lost everything—his reputation, his marriage, his future. And when my daughter kicks, I whisper, “We’re free.”
