**A Diary Entry – The Birthday “Gift” That Shattered Me**
Growing up, I was treated like a princess in a glass palace. Only the best for me—top schools, private tutors, trips abroad. Mum would say, “You deserve nothing but the finest,” while Dad simply nodded, his only daughter. Yet when it came to love, life had other plans.
Finding my “prince” wasn’t easy. Countless flings, empty promises. Then came Edward—charming, attentive, almost too perfect. Flowers for no reason, reading poetry aloud, treasuring my touch like something sacred. My friends envied me, swooned—except for Emma.
*“Are you sure he loves you and not just your father’s bank account?”* she’d ask, sceptical.
I laughed it off. I trusted Ed completely. Loved him fiercely, achingly. We married quietly—no grand reception, just us. My parents gifted us a flat on the 25th floor with views that stole your breath. Thanks to Dad, Ed quickly became deputy director at the family firm, though he worked hard, earning Dad’s trust. “I’ll hand him the business one day,” Dad often said.
We were the perfect couple—or so it seemed. Years passed, and we talked about children. My parents longed for grandchildren. Ed and I agreed: it was time. But month after month, nothing. Tests revealed the issue was me. Hormones, treatments, then IVF—all failures, leaving me hollow, bitter. Ed stood by me. Or so I thought.
My thirtieth birthday arrived. Mum insisted on a party—music, laughter, champagne—hoping to lift my spirits. I faked smiles while my heart splintered. Mid-celebration, my phone rang. Stepping into the hall, I answered. A woman’s voice, cold and steady.
*“I’m sorry to call like this,”* she began. *“But as a woman, you’ll understand. Edward and I have been together a while. I’m pregnant. He mentioned your… struggles. Please let him go. He wants a son. My child needs a father.”*
The room spun. I gripped the wall, breath gone. Now I knew where he’d been those evenings—claimed he was with mates, his mum, meetings. Why he’d grown distant, colder.
I wiped my face, steadied myself, and returned to the party. Smiled through the pain. Once the guests left, only my parents remained. Then I said it:
*“Mum, Dad… Ed’s been cheating. She’s having his baby.”*
The silence was tomb-like. Dad stood, stepped close to Ed, and growled, *“You’re no son of mine. Get out.”*
Mum took me home but I sent her away—I needed to be alone. That night, Ed returned. Stood in the hallway like a kicked dog, begging forgiveness. *“It was a mistake. I don’t love her. Maybe she bewitched me.”* I stayed silent. Let him sleep on the sofa—not out of pity, but exhaustion.
By morning, he pleaded again. *“Talk to your dad. Tell him it’s fine.”* But looking at him, I saw a stranger. The love was gone, the trust with it.
He left. The woman, he said, was due soon. Truth or manipulation? All I knew: the child I’d longed for still wasn’t mine. But his would be. Not with me.
Now I’m torn: fight or walk away? But fight for what, when he’s already betrayed me? A life without him terrifies me. Yet staying—that’s impossible.
