My name is Lucy, and for years I believed my life was steady in all the ways that mattered. I had a small home, a predictable routine, a stable job, and a husband, Oliver, who felt like the calm after a lifetime of chaos. As the oldest of four sisters, I grew up as the responsible one, the fixer, the one who made sure everything stayed together even when it was falling apart.
Oliver was my peace. He left notes in my lunchbox, made the coffee just the way I liked it, and talked to our unborn daughter every night while resting his head on my lap. When I got pregnant, it felt like our world had finally snapped into place.
And then, one Thursday night, everything shattered.
Oliver stood in the kitchen doorway, pale and tense, and whispered words that didn’t make sense at first:
“Judy’s pregnant.”
My sister. My own sister.
He said they’d “fallen in love.” He said he wanted a divorce. He even asked me not to hate her, as if betrayal should be taken politely. The stress that followed was overwhelming, and in the weeks after, I lost my baby. Oliver barely reached out. Judy sent me a message so empty it felt rehearsed. Then, a few months later, they announced their wedding — and my parents, desperate to pretend everything was normal, paid for it.
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