My parents never truly wanted me; they always wished I had been born a boy. No matter what I did, I was never enough. When I married Jordan, they adored him instantly—as if he were the child they always wanted. At first, my marriage felt like a new beginning, but when I struggled to conceive, everything changed. Doctors told me it would be nearly impossible naturally, though IVF was an option. I hoped Jordan would stand by me, but instead, my parents poisoned him against me.

One day, my mother called, screaming at me for being “infertile,” words Jordan had shared without my consent. Soon, his attitude grew cold and distant. He stopped trying, stopped caring, and eventually handed me divorce papers. My parents supported his decision, even standing beside him in court. Betrayed by the three people who should have loved me most, I left with nothing but my shattered heart and the determination to rebuild.

I started therapy, focused on myself, and began IVF on my own with a donor. The first attempt failed, but I refused to give up. On the second try, it worked. Months later, I held my daughter—my Hope—in my arms. For the first time in my life, I felt whole. She wasn’t a reminder of loss; she was proof of my strength and my future.

Then, one afternoon, I ran into my parents and Jordan. They were stunned to see me with a child. Suddenly, they wanted to be part of my life again, even suggesting Jordan and I reunite. But I stood firm. “You don’t deserve to meet her,” I told them. “Cruel people like you will never be part of my daughter’s world.” With Hope in my arms, I walked away, finally free.