After six painful years of trying to conceive—IVF, hormone therapy, even acupuncture—I was exhausted. My husband, Daniel, remained endlessly supportive and hopeful, but I was done. I told him I couldn’t face another Mother’s Day surrounded by smiling families and handmade cards. I needed space. That morning, he said he had a surprise. I assumed it was pastries or a bouquet. Instead, he walked in holding a baby girl—tiny, perfect, and not ours.“This is Evie,” he said. “She needs a mom. And I knew you were meant to be one.” I was stunned,

overwhelmed, and somehow… already in love. But something felt off. Daniel wouldn’t explain where she came from. He just kept saying, “Trust me.” Then I got a call—from a scared young woman named Lacey. She was Evie’s birth mother. Daniel had promised her an apartment—my apartment, the one I inherited—and convinced her to hand over her baby. He told her I couldn’t have children. He didn’t lie. But he cheated on me, manipulated her,