I married Travis three years ago, believing I had found my forever partner. He spoke about his daughter, Lily, with such tenderness that his entire face softened at the mention of her name.
The first time I met her, she was ten years old—sweet, a little shy, holding onto his leg as she whispered “Daddy.” I wanted to be respectful, so I never pushed. If he said it was best to keep parenting time separate, I accepted it.
Then came the call that changed everything.
“Mia, something terrible happened,” Travis said. “Lily was in a bike accident. The doctors aren’t sure she’ll walk normally again without therapy.”
From that day forward, our lives revolved around Lily’s supposed recovery. Therapy bills piled up, and although Travis never directly asked, I stepped in. I wanted to help. First $5,000, then $7,000, then $10,000. By the end of the year, I had given him $85,000—my savings, my inheritance, and my dream of opening a bakery.
But soon, little details didn’t add up. Lily seemed fine whenever I saw her, running and climbing with barely a limp. Every time I asked to attend a session or celebrate her progress, Travis had an excuse. Something felt wrong.
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