I Raised Triplets Alone—Then Crashed My Ex’s Baby’s Birthday Party (2 of 4)

I was there for the midnight coding marathons, the investor rejections, the first client win. I picked the logo, the name, even his tie for the pitch that changed everything.

And then came Harper.
His new PR rep. Younger. Glossy. The kind of woman who laughed at every sentence like it was a secret joke just for her.

Six months later, Nathan was a stranger. His phone became a locked vault, his late nights turned into absences, and the warmth in his eyes went cold.

“I think we’ve grown apart,” he told me one rainy evening, leaving the keys to our home on the counter like they were the final word.

I was three weeks pregnant.

Why I Never Told Him

The headlines called it “an amicable split.”
It wasn’t.

Two weeks later, I saw a photo of Nathan and Harper in the Maldives. Sun-kissed, champagne in hand, she wore a gold bracelet I recognized—because I once wore it.

I made my decision right then. He didn’t deserve to know.

I moved to a quiet seaside town, sold my ring, and rented a tiny cottage. On a Tuesday morning, I brought three perfect babies into the world—Oliver, Noah, and Grace.

That was the day my life split in two: the before and the after.