The Day My Husband Killed My Baby, I was Done

Three years. Elijah had been lying to me for three whole years.

The late nights. The sudden business trips. The distant kisses and hurried excuses. I had believed all of it. Every single lie. And now, he stood in front of me, holding a little girl in his arms.

“We should take her home,” he said. “She needs a family.”

Just like that.

Like she wasn’t his flesh and blood. Like she wasn’t proof of his betrayal.

I nodded. “Okay.”

There was no point in arguing. So, we brought Tricia home.

I tried. I forced a smile when I had to. Spoke softly, patiently. Acted like the perfect mother Elijah expected me to be. I tucked Tricia into bed at night, read her stories, tried to hold her hand when we crossed the street.

But Tricia hated me. She screamed when I touched her.

Pulled away when I spoke.

She threw her toys at me, kicked the furniture, slammed doors whenever I entered a room. Her tiny hands curled into fists, her little face scrunched up in anger as she glared at me like I was the villain in her story.

“You’re not my mommy!” she shrieked.

The words cut deeper than I expected.

“My mommy is Beatrice!”

Beatrice. The name burned.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, tried to soften my voice. “Tricia—”

She didn’t let me finish. Her small hands reached for the nearest thing—a decorative vase on the table. Before I could react, she lifted it with all her strength and hurled it at me.

The glass shattered at my feet. A sharp intake of breath. Elijah.

He rushed into the room, eyes immediately darting toward

Tricia. His voice was sharp, concerned. “What’s going on?”

Tricia ran to him, her small arms wrapping around his legs as she sobbed. “I want Mommy!”

She clutched at his shirt, her voice breaking. “I don’t want her!”

Elijah’s gaze snapped to me. Accusing. Cold.

“What did you do?”

The question hit like a slap.

I let out a sharp breath, wiping my hands down my dress.

“Nothing.”

Elijah knelt down, brushing Tricia’s hair back as he whispered soft reassurances. His voice was warm, gentle—the kind of voice he hadn’t used with me in a long time.

“She’s scared,” he finally said, standing up. “She’s been with Beatrice since. That’s why she calls her ‘Mommy.’ It’s natural.”

Natural. Nothing about this was natural. Nothing about this—this twisted, sick joke of a family—was natural.

Elijah exhaled. “I think it would be best if Beatrice stayed with us for a while. Just until Tricia adjusts.”

The room tilted. Beatrice. Here. In my home. Is he kidding me? But of course, I couldn’t argue. Again, I didn’t want to argue. I just want to leave this place and never see them again.

I should have said no. I should have screamed.

Instead, I nodded. “Okay.”

Because what else was I supposed to do? I had already lost.

And the moment Elijah turned his back, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

“Hello,” I said quietly. “I need a divorce lawyer.”

That night, Beatrice moved in. Dinner was already served by the time I walked into the dining room. The table was set. Plates filled. Except mine.

They hadn’t even called me. Tricia sat on Beatrice’s lap, giggling as she took bites from her plate. Elijah was pouring her a drink, his expression soft.

I cleared my throat.

Beatrice turned to me, her lips curling. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry, Victoria. I thought you weren’t coming.”

I sat down, my stomach twisting. “I don’t eat meat.”

Elijah sighed, rubbing his temples. “Be a good woman,

Victoria. Beatrice cooked for us. Have a plate.”

My fingers curled around my lap. “I said no.”

His jaw tensed. “What is wrong with you?”

I wanted to scream. To flip the table. To throw the plate across the room and watch it shatter, just like my marriage had.

But I didn’t. Instead, I picked up my glass of water, took a slow sip, and forced a smile.

“Nothing,” I whispered.

I had already lost this battle. But the war was far from over.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

I could hear them downstairs. Their laughter. Their whispered conversations. They weren’t even trying to hide it anymore. A sharp pain twisted in my chest, but I refused to cry. I had done enough of that.

Then—

A sound. Soft footsteps outside my door.

I pushed off the blankets and stepped into the hallway.

Tricia.

She was still awake, spinning in circles at the top of the stairs, humming to herself.

I sighed. “Tricia, it’s late. You should be in bed.”

She turned to me, her small face twisted in a frown.

Then—she ran.

“Tricia, wait—”

Her tiny feet moved too fast. She tripped. My breath caught as she tumbled forward, her small body rolling down the stairs.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My heart stopped. I ran forward, my hands shaking, my mind racing.

Then—

A scream.

“Oh my God!”

Beatrice. I barely had time to react before she pointed at me, her voice shrill.

“Victoria pushed Tricia down the stairs! Help!”