The moment I laid eyes on my newborn triplets—Sophie, Lily, and Grace—I knew my life had changed forever. After years of longing, they were finally here, perfect in every way. But my joy turned to horror when my husband, Jack, walked into the hospital room with fear in his eyes.
He wouldn’t look at the babies. Instead, he stood frozen near the door, his face pale. “Emily,” he said quietly, “we can’t keep them.”
My heart stopped. “What are you talking about?”
His voice shook as he explained. His mother had visited a fortune teller who claimed our daughters would bring ruin—bad luck, even death. He believed it.
I begged him to see reason. “They’re just babies!” But he refused to listen. “If you bring them home,” he whispered, “I won’t be there.”
And just like that, he left.
Weeks later, my sister-in-law revealed the truth—there was no fortune teller. Jack’s mother had made it up, afraid he’d abandon her for his new family.
When I confronted Jack, he refused to believe me. “My mother wouldn’t lie,” he insisted before hanging up.
A year later, he returned, begging for forgiveness. But by then, I’d learned to live—and thrive—without him.
“You had your chance,” I told him, closing the door for good.
