I am Jules, 35. Mom to Olivia, my six-year-old daughter, is a kind, artistic soul. Lyla, age four, is my shadow and a beautiful snuggle bug. And Everly, who was almost two, was learning to construct the funniest statements.

Mason, 37, and I had established a life together, or so I believed. He had always wanted a large family, and when I found out I was pregnant again, his delight was almost boyish!

“It has to be a boy this time, Jules.”

He became obsessed with the idea. Mason was fixated, and I didn’t notice until it was too late.

The gender reveal party was his idea. I didn’t mind the fuss, but I agreed. For him.

The cake he purchased for the occasion was ideal. Inside, the cream’s color would reveal the baby’s gender.

The only one missing was Thomas, my husband’s father.

But, in retrospect, I wish he had come. Perhaps the night would not have turned out so badly.

On that fateful day, my husband and I stood holding the knife, ready to cut the cake.

The first piece dropped on the plate.

Pink.

We were having another girl!

And then Mason snapped.

“Are you kidding me?!” he barked.

His arm swung, catching the cake and throwing it across the yard.

“I don’t have time for this!” Mason’s voice was a deep and fierce growl. “Another girl? Another girl?!”

Then he was gone.

On the third day, panic overcame my pride, and I resolved to seek help. I emailed a video of the unveiling, Mason’s scream, and my kids’ tears to his family patriarch, Thomas. Along with one desperate message.

His response was quick.

“No matter what happens with that foolish son of mine, you and those girls will never be left wanting.”

Thomas has sent a significant amount of money into my account!

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Weeks have passed.

I was running errands one day when I spotted Mason in a baby store.

I followed him to the checkout line. And when I saw what he was buying, my heart dropped.

It was a blue baby boy crib!

A young woman, attractive, glowing, and heavily pregnant, hovered by his side. She giggled at something he said before leaning in and kissing him on the lips.

“So this is why,” I spoke, my voice slashing the air. Mason wrenched his head around, and his gaze caught mine.

I ignored her, my eyes fixed on Mason. “You couldn’t handle another girl, so you ran off to find someone who’d give you a boy? Thank God your father is a much kinder and responsible person than you are! I told him everything, and he helped me.”

I felt nauseous. My daughters, his daughters, meant nothing to him! Nothing except missed opportunity!

But the narrative did not stop there.

I needed answers from Thomas.

I called my FIL and requested a meeting.

His eyes blazed with something dark. “I thought I was motivating my children because I need a grandson to carry the family name.”

Thomas was patriarchal, but not unkind. He was sensible. At the least.

Mason proposed to his pregnant mistress three weeks later after serving me with divorce papers, believing that this would be his route to fortune.

But fate, it turned out, has a cruel sense of humor.

When I lay in that hospital room, the nurse spoke softly but clearly.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You have a healthy baby boy!”

Two months later, the doorbell rang.

I opened it and found Mason.

“Jules…” he rasped. “I… I lost everything.”

His voice cracked. “My father. He… he disowned me. He gave everything… to you.”

His knees buckled. “Please,” he begged, “I love you. I love our girls—”

I closed the door.

Because my family—Olivia, Lyla, Everly, and my son, Thomas Jr.—deserved more than the man on the other side.

We were finally free.