I’m 25 weeks pregnant with what was supposed to be our miracle baby. My husband Steve and I had tried for years, and when it finally happened, I thought I’d won the jackpot—until the Fourth of July exposed everything.

Steve’s mom called, insisting the parade would be too loud for my migraines and I should stay home. Steve agreed, so I reluctantly did. But when a kitchen pipe burst and I FaceTimed him for help, he seemed annoyed—and accidentally left the call connected. That’s when I saw it: he wasn’t at a parade. He was at a backyard party… with his ex, Hazel.

Decorations. Food. Laughter. Steve’s whole family was there, acting like I didn’t exist. Hazel leaned into him, smiling. His mom said, “Just like old times.” And when I showed up, soaked from the flooding and shaking with betrayal, everything unraveled. Hazel had no idea Steve was married. His parents called me “clingy” and questioned my baby’s paternity.

Steve stood there silent. That’s when I left—and didn’t go back.

Now I’m at my best friend’s place. I’ve started planning for life alone, and surprisingly, I’m not afraid. My baby deserves better than lies and backhanded love. Independence Day gave me just that—freedom from people who never truly saw me.