I thought Travis and I were building something real. He wasn’t perfect—distant, self-centered—but he made me coffee just the way I liked it, left sweet notes, and played songs that reminded him of me. I told myself love was about enduring flaws. Then came the day everything fell apart.
I came home early with a headache and found Travis kissing my mother, Linda. My world shattered. He didn’t even look sorry. Linda just crossed her arms and said I made everything a crisis. Then they both walked out like I didn’t matter. Two days later, I started throwing up. At first, I blamed the stress. Then I took six pregnancy tests. All positive. I was carrying Travis’s child.
When I finally told him, he showed up with ginger tea and crackers, pretending to be involved. But it wasn’t love. It was guilt—or convenience.
Then Linda called. Her voice was sweet, but her words were cruel: “I’m pregnant too. And yes, I planned it.”
I felt cold all over. When Travis showed up again, I confronted him. He admitted he felt trapped. Suggested I “consider my options.” I kicked him out.
But it wasn’t over. Days later, I drove to Linda’s to leave a letter—some final closure. Instead, I found Travis, suitcase in hand, ready to disappear.
I confronted him. He tried to blame us for “making a mess.” I reminded him who caused the chaos. Then I tore up his plane tickets, called Linda, and told her exactly what her perfect man was doing.
As I walked away, I told Travis he’d be hearing from my lawyer. He was going to pay for both children—whether he liked it or not.
I left the letter on the table, changed my mind about being kind, and stepped into the sunlight, stronger than I’d felt in weeks.