When I was pregnant, my sister Stacy stole my husband—something I’d dreaded. I’d always lived feeling invisible, overshadowed by her in everything from academics to sports, while our parents lavished attention on her. The only real love I received was from my grandmother, who became my refuge and helped me through college.
After marrying Henry, things started well. But my grandmother, initially uneasy about him, hinted he was unfaithful. Not long after, I discovered Henry and Stacy together. They both admitted their betrayal, and Henry callously blamed me—saying Stacy was more attractive and even questioned the paternity of my baby. He threw me out, taking everything but my car. My grandmother welcomed me back.
When Grandma revealed she had only months to live, I stayed home to care for her and my unborn son. Her passing left me heartbroken—but her inheritance provided security. Soon after, Stacy appeared, desperate for help after losing everything with Henry. I refused, offering only a lawyer referral, realizing I needed to protect my future. For the first time, I felt free—and determined to honor my grandmother’s love, saying softly to my belly, “I’ll make you proud.”