For years, I dreamed of holding a positive pregnancy test, imagining the joy of sharing it with Clay. But when I finally saw those two lines, everything changed.
Instead of celebrating, I found a Kinder Surprise at the door. Inside, a note read: “I’m divorcing you.” I was stunned. Clay had always been distant lately, but this was a shock.
I had waited so long for this moment, but now I was alone. Hours passed without a response from Clay. By morning, I opened the door to find the Kinder egg—only to read those devastating words.
Clay’s mother, Margaret, had been living with us due to her health. As she entered the kitchen, I showed her the note, and her concern quickly turned to suspicion. “You’re pregnant? That’s impossible. My son can’t have children,” she snapped, accusing me of cheating.
Two weeks ago, I had visited Sarah. A kind stranger had helped me when I lost my wallet, but I blacked out after eating chocolate. I woke up at his house, confused and embarrassed, but nothing had happened. Margaret’s accusations made me question everything.
That evening, Clay came home, and we argued. Margaret’s voice cut through the tension: “The Kinder egg was from me.” She revealed she’d orchestrated the cruelty to force me out.
Clay didn’t listen as I tried to explain. He blamed me for cheating, and Margaret supported him. I left that night, determined to find the truth.
I met with George, the man from that night, and he explained what had happened. He hadn’t taken advantage of me—I had passed out due to an allergic reaction to alcohol in the chocolate. I was relieved but still reeling from everything else.
The next day, I saw my doctor, Mrs. Green, who revealed Clay wasn’t infertile—he’d lied. I couldn’t believe it. He’d made me feel like I was the one who betrayed him.
After everything, George stood by me. As my divorce unfolded, he became my support, and over time, our bond grew. Six months later, he asked me to marry him. “Yes!” I said.
When our daughter was born, I finally understood what a real family was.
