My name is Jules, and I’m 35. I’m a proud mom to Olivia, my sweet and artistic six-year-old; Lyla, four, my constant shadow and cuddle bug; and Everly, nearly two, who was already forming the funniest little sentences.
I was married to Mason, 37. I truly believed we had built a solid life together. He had always said he wanted a big family, and when I found out I was pregnant again, he was thrilled — almost boyishly excited.
— “It has to be a boy this time, Jules.”
That idea quickly became an obsession. Mason was fixated, and I didn’t even realize it until it was too late.
The gender reveal party was his idea. I didn’t care for the fuss, but I went along with it. For him.
He picked the perfect cake — three tiers, with a colored cream inside to reveal the baby’s gender.
The only person missing that day was Mason’s father, Thomas.
And now, looking back, I wish he’d been there. Maybe the night wouldn’t have gone so horribly wrong.
When it was time to cut the cake, Mason and I stood side by side, holding the knife together.
The first slice fell onto the plate.
Pink.
We were having another girl.
And that’s when Mason snapped.
— “Are you kidding me?!” he shouted.
He flung his arm, hitting the cake and sending it flying across the yard.
— “I don’t have time for this! Another girl?! Another?!”
Then he stormed off. And just like that… he was gone.
By the third day, my pride gave way to desperation. I needed help. I sent an email to Mason’s father, Thomas. I attached the video of the party — Mason’s outburst, our daughters crying — and added a heartfelt plea for support.
His reply came quickly:
— “No matter what my foolish son does, you and those girls will never be left wanting.”
Shortly after, a generous sum landed in my bank account. Tears rolled down my face.
— “Thank you…” I whispered.
Weeks passed.
One afternoon, while out running errands, I saw Mason in a baby store.
Curious, I followed him to the checkout. My heart sank when I saw what he was buying: a blue baby crib.
By his side was a glowing young woman, visibly pregnant, giggling at something he said. She leaned in and kissed him.
— “So this is why,” I said aloud, cutting through the moment like a knife.
Mason turned around sharply, shocked to see me.
— “You couldn’t handle another daughter, so you ran off to find someone who’d give you a boy? Thank God your father is a better man than you’ll ever be. I told him everything — and he helped me.”
His eyes narrowed, dark and proud.
— “My father,” he said coldly, “the same man you’re praising, promised his entire estate to the first person to give him a grandson.”
I felt sick. To Mason, our daughters meant nothing. Nothing but a missed opportunity.
But the story didn’t end there.
I needed to hear the truth from Thomas.
I called and arranged to meet with him. His expression was heavy.
— “I thought I was motivating my children,” he admitted. “I wanted a grandson to carry on the family name.”
Thomas was old-fashioned — but not cruel. At least he had a conscience.
Three weeks later, Mason served me divorce papers and proposed to his pregnant girlfriend, thinking he had won the prize.
But fate has a way of correcting injustice.
When I gave birth at the hospital, the nurse entered the room with a smile.
— “Congratulations. You have a healthy baby boy.”
Two months later, my doorbell rang.
I opened the door. Mason was there.
— “Jules…” he croaked. “I… I lost everything.”
His voice broke.
— “My father… he disowned me. He gave everything… to you.”
He dropped to his knees.
— “Please… I love you. I love our girls—”
I simply closed the door.
Because my family — Olivia, Lyla, Everly, and my son, Thomas Jr. — deserved better than the man standing outside.
We were finally free.