Looking back, the signs were there. But I was eight months pregnant, exhausted, and convincing myself I was just paranoid.
I married Eli three years ago. He was charming, funny, the guy everyone loved. When I got pregnant, he cried and promised to be the best dad.
Then he changed. Late nights. Phone glued to his hand.
One night, I heard him whispering in the bathroom:
“Can’t wait to see you again… she’s asleep.”
The next day, his phone lit up while he showered:
“You’re worth the risk.”
I didn’t confront him. I knew he’d gaslight me. Instead, I told my best friend Maya. She said, “Set the trap.”
Eli’s 30th birthday was coming. I planned a big party — and bought a giant piñata.
For weeks, I secretly collected proof: texts, hotel receipts, photos. I stuffed them all inside the piñata.
On his birthday, the house was packed. He played Perfect Husband. His mom told me how lucky I was.
Then he hit the piñata.
Instead of candy, screenshots and receipts rained down. Guests read them in silence.
“Eli… is this real?”
I rested my hand on my belly and said, “Happy birthday. Hope she was worth it.”
Two days later, the worst twist came. A pregnant woman named Lauren knocked on my door. She was his mistress — and carrying his child. He’d lied to both of us.
That night, I found even more: an active Tinder account. I updated his bio to tell the truth. It got banned. Lauren and I laughed for the first time in months.
We weren’t done. We printed flyers warning other women and posted them everywhere he frequented.
He said I ruined his life. I told him he did that himself.
We divorced. His parents supported both me and Lauren. Somehow, we became allies — swapping baby clothes, crying, healing.
I don’t regret any of it.
My daughter will grow up knowing her mother didn’t stay silent.
And every time I feel her kick, I whisper, “We’re free.”