After giving birth to triplets, my husband called me a “scarecrow.” I was exhausted, stitched, swollen, and sleepless—yet he chose that moment to start an affair with his secretary. He thought I was too broken to notice. He couldn’t have been more wrong. What followed cost him everything and gave me back someone I thought I’d lost—myself.
I met Kael when I was 25, the kind of man who could light up a room and make you believe in forever. We spent eight years together—five as husband and wife—building a life that felt almost perfect. After years of heartbreak and infertility, I finally got pregnant. And not with one, but three. Triplets. Cove, Briar, and Arden. My little miracles.
But pregnancy wasn’t a fairytale. My ankles swelled, my body ached, and I spent months on bed rest. I barely recognized myself in the mirror. When I finally held those tiny babies, I thought every struggle had been worth it. Kael seemed proud at first—posting photos, soaking up praise for being a “superdad.” But as soon as the hospital lights dimmed and real life began, his love started to fade.
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