We planned everything for our first child—playlist, outfit, tiny hat. My husband practiced swaddling. When labor hit, I called him. He promised he was coming. But he never showed.
Hours dragged. Nurses said he might be stuck in traffic or at work, but I felt something was wrong. Emily was born perfectly, and he missed it. I left the hospital exhausted, confused, clinging to hope that there was a reason.
At home, there were no decorations—just silence. In the empty nursery, I found a crumpled note from him saying he loved us but had to leave forever, and to ask my mom why. I screamed for my mom.
She finally confessed a secret she’d kept for years: Michael was her brother. My husband was my uncle. My baby’s father was also her great-uncle. My life, my family—everything was a horrifying lie.