“Here! Take it! I shouldn’t have listened to you!” the stranger shrieked.
Im raising a daughter born to my husbands mistress. Yes, you read that right. Some might think Ive lost my mind or need therapy. But hear me out before you judge.
It was 2005, and my husband Alex and I had a family and a thriving business. He owned several grocery stores, importing goods from France, Italy, and Germany. His success meant I could focus entirely on home life, especially with our five-year-old son, Oliver. I poured myself into raising him and keeping our house spotlessalways a hot meal waiting for Alex, whether it was a hearty stew, dumplings, or stuffed peppers.
Everything shattered one cursed evening. We were driving home from a friends gathering, Oliver asleep in the backseat. As we neared our house, Alex grew tense. A young woman stood by the gate, clutching a pink baby blanket. The moment we stepped out of the car, she rushed toward him:
“Here! Take her! I shouldnt have listened to you and kept this baby!”
I froze, staring at her. Alex looked just as stunned.
“I dont want to see or hear from you again! Dont you dare call or say a word to my daughter!”
I stood there in the biting cold, snow swirling around us. Neighbors peered through their windows at the commotion. Alex remained silent, clutching the blanket.
“Lets go inside,” he muttered. “Ill explain everything.”
Turns out, the woman was a former employee whod left a year ago. You can guess why.
“What do we do with her?” Alex whispered later, gently tucking the baby girl into bed.
“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 a second time. We named the girl Violet. I felt no hatred toward herhow could I blame an innocent child?
Forgiving Alex took years. We saw a therapist and even considered divorce. But time heals. I saw genuine remorse in him, his efforts to rebuild trust. It wasnt overnightit took months, years.
Oliver adored Violet. He played with her, pushed her pram around the neighbourhood, bragged to friends about his beautiful sister. He never let anyone hurt her.
Eighteen years passed. Violet grew into Alexs mirror imageeven scrunching her nose the same way before a sneeze. I called her my own, though some neighbours still whispered and glared when we walked by.
Last week, we celebrated Violets eighteenth birthdayfirst with family, then she went out with friends. My in-laws, parents, and godparents attended. Then, uninvited, Violets birth mother arrived.
“What are you doing here?” Alex hissed, steering her away.
“I came to see my daughter. Wheres Violet?”
“Her name isnt Violetits Charlotte. What do you want?”
“For Gods sake, could you not pick a better name? I brought her giftsmakeup, a new phone. Where is she?”
“Listen, she has parents. Youre nothing. Eighteen years and now you remember her?”
“Where Ive been is none of your business! Ill sue you!”
“Get out. Dont ever come back, or Ill call the police.”
As Alex sent her away, I realised nothing could break our family. Wed protect each other, no matter what. Despite everything, Alex is a wonderful father, and Im glad our children have him.
Could you have taken in anothers child, as our reader did?
