What should have been the happiest day of my life turned into heartbreak. I’m 27, pregnant with our first child,
and thought our gender reveal would be a new beginning for Grant and me. We planned everything — food, décor, matching outfits — and I was excited to
celebrate. But two nights before, his phone lit up with messages from “M.” Hotel bookings, flirty notes, and a selfie of her kissing his cheek shattered me.
Instead of canceling, I chose exposure. At the party, with family and friends gathered, Grant acted like the perfect dad-to-be, hugging relatives and
kissing my belly. When it was time to pop the balloon, instead of pink or blue confetti, hundreds of slips rained down — screenshots of his texts.
The room froze. His mother gasped, relatives stared, and Grant accused me of ruining everything. I told him, “No, you ruined everything.”
Then I cut the cake, blue filling spilling out. “It’s a boy,” I said, “and I’ll raise him to be a better man than his father.”
Guests clapped, some hugged me. Grant stormed out. That night, sitting in the nursery, I finally felt peace, knowing my son will grow up with truth and dignity.
