After years of hoping and trying, my dream came true—I gave birth to triplets: Sophie, Lily, and Grace. Holding them in my arms for the first time was the happiest moment of my life. But that joy didn’t last long.
The next day, my husband Jack walked into the hospital room looking like a ghost. He barely glanced at our daughters. His face was pale, his voice unsteady. Then he dropped a bomb I never expected:
“We can’t bring them home. We need to leave them here.”
I stared at him, horrified. These were our daughters. We had longed for this moment. But Jack went on to say his mother had visited a fortune teller—who supposedly predicted that the babies would bring misfortune and even cause his death.
I was speechless. He was willing to abandon his children over a superstition.
I told him that if he walked out, he couldn’t come back. And he left.
In the weeks that followed, I raised our three daughters alone. Sleepless nights, constant exhaustion, and heartbreak—but I did it. Because they were mine. I never once thought about leaving them behind.
Then one day, Jack’s sister came to visit. And what she told me changed everything.
There was no fortune teller.
Jack’s mother made it all up because she was jealous—afraid that our girls would steal her son’s attention. She manipulated Jack into leaving us. And he believed her.
I called Jack and told him the truth. But he refused to believe me.
“I know my mother,” he said. “She’d never lie about something like this.”
So that was it. He chose his mother’s lie over his own children.
Months passed. Then one day, his mother showed up at my door, full of regret and apologies. She admitted it all. But it was too late.
A year later, Jack returned too, begging to come back. But I had already rebuilt my life—with my daughters, my strength, and a new sense of self-worth.
I looked at him and said, “You walked away when it mattered most. We’re not your second chance.”
I closed the door—and never looked back.