“Take her! I was a fool to listen to you!” the stranger screamed.
Im raising a daughter born from my husbands mistress. Yes, you read that right. Some might think Im out of my mind and need help. But hear me outlet me tell you the whole story.
It was 2005. Alex and I had a family and a thriving business. My husband owned several grocery stores, importing goods from France, Italy, and Germany. His success meant I could stay home, dedicating myself entirely to our son, Oliver, who was five at the time. Our house was always spotless, warm with the smell of roast dinners, shepherds pie, and perfectly pressed linens.
Then, everything shattered that cursed evening. We were driving home from a friends gathering, Oliver asleep in the backseat. As we pulled up to our house in Surrey, I noticed Alex growing tense. A young woman stood by the gate, clutching a pink blanket. The moment we stepped out of the car, she rushed at him.
“Take her!” she shouted, shoving the bundle into his arms. “I should never have listened to youI shouldve gotten rid of her!”
I stood frozen, my breath fogging in the icy air. Alex looked just as lost.
“I dont want to see her or hear from you again!” he snapped. “Dont you dare call, dont you dare say a word about her!”
Neighbours peered through their curtains as the wind howled around us. Alex, silent, held the pink blanket tighter.
“Lets go inside,” he muttered. “Ill explain.”
Turns out, the girl was a former employee whod left a year priorand you can guess why.
“What do we do now?” Alex whispered later, carefully tucking the baby into Olivers old crib.
“What do you mean? We raise her. Shes your daughter.”
I bribed doctors to falsify my medical records, making it seem like Id been pregnant again. We named her Violet. No hatred, no resentmentjust the quiet understanding that the child was innocent. How could I blame a two-month-old baby?
Forgiving Alex took years. We saw a therapist, even considered divorce. But time heals. I watched him genuinely repent, fighting to rebuild my trust. It wasnt overnightit took years.
Oliver adored Violet. He played with her, pushed her pram around the neighbourhood, bragged to his mates about his “brilliant little sister.” No one dared tease hernot on his watch.
Eighteen years passed. Violet grew into Alexs mirror imagesame furrowed brow before a sneeze. I called her my own, though some neighbours still whispered, their glances sharp as knives.
Last week, we celebrated her eighteenth birthdayfirst with family, then shed head out with friends. Grandparents, godparents, all there. Then, uninvitedher birth mother arrived.
“What are you doing here?” Alex growled, dragging her outside.
“Im here for my daughter. Wheres Lily?”
“Her names Violet. What do you want?”
“She has parents. Youre nothing. Eighteen years latewhere were you before?”
“None of your business! Ill take you to court!”
“Get out. If I see you here again, Ill call the police.”
As he shut the door, I realised nothing could break our family. Wed protect each otheralways. And despite everything, Alex was a brilliant father.
Could you have done the same?
