I thought our third child would bring us closer, but instead, she tore us apart. My husband Randall and I had a happy life with our two boys, Ben and Liam. When I got pregnant again, we were thrilled—it was a girl, and Randall was ecstatic. He talked to my belly every night and dreamed of daddy-daughter dances. But when Mya was born, something shifted. Randall barely looked at her and refused to hold her. I chalked it up to stress, but it only got worse.

At first, I blamed myself. Was I unattractive now? Did he regret having another baby? But nothing prepared me for the real reason: Randall suspected I’d cheated—with George, a friendly older coworker who occasionally left flowers and notes for me and others at work. Randall had always disliked George’s gestures, but I never imagined he’d think Mya wasn’t his.

His coldness turned to accusations, and soon his entire family joined in. His mother even told me she’d never trusted me. Broken and humiliated, I agreed to a paternity test just to end the chaos. I revealed the results during Ben’s birthday party: Randall was Mya’s father. One hundred percent. The shame on his face said it all.

After the party, I told Randall things had to change if we were going to survive this. I demanded we move to a new town, cut ties with his mother, and go to therapy—together and individually. Surprisingly, he agreed to everything.

Months later, we’re rebuilding. Slowly. Trust takes time, but we’re both trying—for ourselves, and our children.