I froze. Maya whispered, “We want to stay with James.”
“You don’t get to want things,” Jenna replied. “Go do your homework.”
I stayed quiet. My mind raced. Her tone shifted later, lighter, conspiratorial. “Once they’re adopted, they’re legally his problem,” she said. “The house, the insurance money—that should be ours. I just need my name on the deed.”
I backed out without a sound. I wasn’t angry yet. I was clear: this wasn’t a mistake. It was a plan.
That night, I came home with pizza, acting normal. Later, after the girls slept, I spoke gently. “Maybe you were right,” I said. “Maybe I can’t do this.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe we shouldn’t delay the wedding,” I added. “Life is short.” She celebrated it, unaware of what was coming.
On the wedding night, I stood in white linen, candlelight flickering. When Jenna raised the microphone, I stepped forward. “We’re here to reveal the truth,” I said calmly. Footage played—unedited, unfiltered, her intentions laid bare. Security escorted her out. I didn’t feel satisfaction. I felt release.
The adoption finalized a week later. That night, we made spaghetti. Lily stirred. Maya danced with the parmesan. We lit a candle for our mother. “We knew you’d choose us,” Lily said. I didn’t speak. I cried. Not because I was strong—but because I was present.
We weren’t just surviving anymore. We were home.
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