After years of infertility, I finally got the miracle I’d prayed for. Michael and I had tried for three long years before I saw that faint pink line. We cried in the doctor’s office when they confirmed it. For months, I held onto that joy.
But as my pregnancy progressed, Michael changed. He stayed out late, grew distant, stopped touching my belly. Then one night, at 35 weeks pregnant, he woke me up with something I never expected:
“I want a DNA test before the birth.”
He said his friends questioned the timeline. He said he needed “peace of mind.” I was stunned. After nine years together, after everything we’d survived, he thought I’d cheated.
When I told him maybe we shouldn’t be married if he didn’t trust me, he shrugged. “Do whatever you want.”
So I did.
The next morning, I left. I moved in with my sister and filed for divorce.
Three weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter, Lily. Holding her, I felt peace — not bitterness. He didn’t deserve the best part of me.
Then he showed up at the hospital. Exhausted. Crying. Apologizing. He admitted he let fear and his friends poison his mind. He begged for a chance to prove himself — not with words, but actions.
And this time, he meant it.
He stayed. He helped. He went to therapy. He showed up every single day.
We didn’t rush back. We rebuilt slowly.
Because love isn’t about never breaking.
It’s about choosing to fight for each other after you do.