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They say no relationship is perfect, and I believed that about Travis and me. He could be distant and self-centered, but he showed love in small ways—coffee in bed, sweet notes, songs that reminded him of me. I thought we were building something real.
My mom, Linda, visited often. She brought soup, did laundry, and gave unwanted advice. I appreciated her—until the day I came home early and found her kissing Travis.
My world shattered.
They acted like I was overreacting. Linda blamed me for not being “enough woman.” Travis said she understood him better. I kicked them out, heartbroken.
Two days later, nausea hit. At first, I blamed stress. But six pregnancy tests confirmed the truth—I was pregnant with Travis’s child.
When I told him, he showed up with ginger tea, trying to act supportive. I saw through it. He was only around because he got caught. Still, I let him linger—I needed time.
Then Linda called: she was pregnant too. She claimed it was intentional—to keep him from coming back to me. That night, I told Travis to leave. He suggested I “consider my options.” I threw him out.
I broke down. But by morning, something inside me hardened. I chose to raise my baby alone.
I went to leave a letter for Linda, but instead found Travis packing. Two plane tickets sat in his bag. He was running. I confronted him. He blamed us—for everything.
I tore up the tickets and called Linda. “Your perfect man is leaving,” I said, and hung up.
Travis demanded answers. I gave him one word: “Consequences.”
He’d pay for both children. I walked away, leaving behind the letter I had meant to leave—before I knew better.
As I stepped into the sun, I felt something shift. I had no plan, but I had my strength. I had lost love and trust—but I had found myself.
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