I came to surprise my daughter, who was expecting a baby… and found her unconscious. It turned out — it was all her husband’s fault. Then I decided: he will get everything he deserves. Six words I sent him made him turn pale instantly.
The phone rang piercingly. On the screen — my daughter’s name. My heart tightened. “Mom… my stomach… hurts…” she whispered, each word torn out with effort. The line cut off. I called her name, but silence answered.
Without hesitation I grabbed my coat, my bag, and rushed out. The taxi raced through the familiar streets…
All this pierced my heart as I hurried home, toward the door left ajar, like a bleeding wound.
“Sara!” I shouted as I entered the house, ready for any nightmare.
Inside — chaos. The lamp swayed, casting yellow light over shards of glass. Blood stains spread across the floor, the table overturned, a shattered vase.
On the floor — Sara, pale as wax, her hand on her belly. Breathing ragged, eyes closed. I rushed to her, my heart pounding as if it would burst.
“Sara! Wake up, darling!” I shook her harder and harder. Panic squeezed my chest, but I couldn’t give in. I dialed 911, my trembling voice gave the address: “My daughter is unconscious, she’s pregnant! Hurry!”
While waiting for help, thoughts raced: where was Ryan? And suddenly I noticed Sara’s phone screen — still glowing. On it was something that shattered my whole world…
Continued in the first comment
I swiped the screen — and the world collapsed forever. In the photo — Ryan on the deck of a luxury yacht, holding another woman in a red bikini; in the next — he’s kneeling, a ring box in hand, fireworks and applause.
Under the pictures — a mocking message: “Your husband is with us now.” Those very images were the blow that made Sara collapse.
The paramedics carried her out on a stretcher, I barely kept up. At the hospital, doctors said: “Emergency C-section — the mother is in a coma, the baby premature, in an incubator.”
Little Leo breathed in rhythm with the machines, my hands trembled, but my mind was clear: I had the evidence in my pocket.
I took screenshots, saved the conversations, noted the timestamps. Sara’s phone became the main proof — yacht photos, tickets, receipts, pictures of watches and hotels.
I wasted no time, I called Arthur — the lawyer I trusted. “We’ll act fast,” he said, and I heard steel determination in his voice.
That night I froze the bank accounts, gathered documents, printed every proof. The next day we filed an urgent motion with the court: temporary custody of the child, freezing of joint assets, banning access to accounts.
The yacht videos, the message, and the pictures of Sara’s collapse were also submitted — all of it became an unstoppable stream of evidence.
I sought no bloody revenge — I demanded justice. To strip him of fatherhood, to reclaim what was stolen, to secure Sara’s and Leo’s safety — that was my plan.
Let the court decide, but I had already started the fight: for my daughter, for my grandson, for the new life that had just begun in the incubator.