Holding my newborn triplets for the first time, I felt complete. But that happiness lasted only hours.
Jack entered the room like a stranger. “We can’t keep them,” he blurted.
My blood ran cold. “What?”
His mother had visited a fortune teller, he said. The woman had warned our daughters would bring tragedy. And Jack, usually so rational, believed her.
“You’re serious?” I whispered.
He couldn’t even look at our babies. “I’m sorry.” Then he left.
Devastated, I raised the girls alone—until my sister-in-law revealed the truth. There was no fortune teller. Jack’s mother had lied, terrified of losing him to fatherhood.
I called Jack, desperate. “She made it up!”
He dismissed me. “You’re wrong.”
A year later, he returned, full of remorse. But by then, I’d moved on.
“You chose a lie over your family,” I told him. “Now live with it.”
