When I was eight months pregnant, I planned a loving 30th birthday party for my husband, Eli — only to find out he was cheating. The signs crept in slowly: late nights, secret calls, a phone glued to his hand. One night, I heard him whispering sweet things to someone else while I cradled our unborn baby. Instead of confronting him then, I gathered proof — screenshots, hotel receipts, messages — everything he thought I’d never see.

Eli loved attention, so I used his birthday to expose him. I stuffed a giant “30” piñata with evidence instead of candy. When he smashed it, texts and photos rained down in front of family, friends, coworkers — even his parents. The room went silent, his mask shattered, and for once, everyone saw the real him. His own father slapped him, and he was left humiliated as I stood there with my hand on my belly and said, “Happy birthday, Eli. Hope she was worth it.”

Two days later, another pregnant woman showed up at my door. Eli had lied to both of us — told her I was the crazy ex and planned to have her move in after I gave birth. We formed an unexpected alliance. Together, we exposed him further — from posting flyers to getting his Tinder banned. His perfect reputation crumbled, and he finally realized he’d blown up his life with his own lies.

Now, his parents support us, not him. Lauren and I share baby clothes and tears and strength. Eli has lost his family, his dignity, and every illusion he had of being “the perfect guy.” As I wait for my daughter to arrive, I feel free. One day she’ll know her mother didn’t break — she fought back. And he will never again have power over us.