But one afternoon, returning home early from work, I overheard something that shattered that comforting illusion. Jenna’s voice floated down the hallway—sharp, impatient, and nothing like the warm figure she had presented to us. She told the girls to tell a social worker they wanted “a different family,” insisting she would not spend her youth raising them. Her words stunned me, but what followed struck even deeper: on a phone call, she mentioned wanting her name placed on the deed to my mother’s house and implied my sisters’ inheritance money should belong “to us.” As I listened, hidden and frozen, my heart sank. It wasn’t anger that overwhelmed me—it was heartbreak. This wasn’t the partner I thought I knew. Quietly retreating outside, I realized that confronting her privately wouldn’t expose the truth. It had to be seen clearly by the people who mattered.
So I made a plan, hiding my hurt behind a calm mask. That evening, I pretended to reconsider my responsibility. I told Jenna I might be willing to “give up the girls,” and her sudden enthusiasm revealed everything. She eagerly agreed and pushed for us to get married as soon as possible. She spent days planning a large hotel banquet, excited by the idea of a celebration that had nothing to do with the values love should stand for. Meanwhile, I reached out to both families and arranged a simple yet powerful way to show them who Jenna truly was. It wasn’t about revenge—it was about ensuring Lily and Maya would never again be at risk of being treated like burdens or bargaining chips.
