When Stan left me, it wasn’t dramatic. It was just a tight-lipped coffee shop conversation and an apologetic shrug.
“I’ve been talking to Ursula again,” he said. “I think we’ve got unfinished business, Nikki. And to be honest, I just want to make sure that she’s not the one who got away.”
“I get it,” I said, smiling at the waiter when he brought my slice of baked cheesecake. “You have to see this through. Not a problem.”
“Aren’t you… upset?” he asked, frowning over his cup of coffee.
“I am a bit sad but let’s face it, Stan. We’ve only been together for three months and I’m not Ursula. So, we owe it to ourselves to see what the world has to offer.”
He nodded and asked for the check.
It was true, we had only been together for three months. It stung, sure. But I told myself to get over it. And I almost did.
Until two weeks later, when I found out I was pregnant. With twins.
I told Stan, of course. There was a long pause on the phone, then a sound I didn’t expect. There was laughter. Choked, stunned, and joyful laughter.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Twins?! Nikki! This is… this is incredible.”
“You’re actually happy about this?” I asked.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “I am! These are two innocent babies who deserve the entire world!”
Apparently, Ursula had fertility issues. And Stan had always wanted kids.
Stan said that getting back together wasn’t on the table but he wanted to be involved. And Ursula?
She “just wanted to support the process.”
But support turned out to mean something very different to all of us involved.
Ursula insisted on meeting.
She and Stan came to my apartment like they were touring a rental with their eyes darting around, assessing the space. She didn’t even sit down before laying out her terms.
“We want a home birth,” she began, as if we were mid-negotiation. “Formula feeding only, Nikki. That way we can split custody from day one, you understand? And the babies will call me Mama. You’ll be Mommy. It’ll help avoid any confusion in the long run.”
I blinked.
But it wasn’t from the surprise. It was from the sheer absurdity of what I was hearing.
Stan sat beside her, sipping coffee and eating the chocolate brownies I made at midnight courtesy of cravings. He kept looking at Ursula like she was discussing furniture placement. He nodded a little, eyes on the floor whenever she spoke to him directly.
I felt something sink in my chest. He wasn’t going to stop her. He wasn’t even going to slow her down.
“You’re not serious,” I said, trying not to laugh but my voice came out a lot flatter than I meant it to.
Ursula smiled. She had one of those tight, rehearsed grins you see on reality shows. Calculated, not kind.
“It’s important to co-parent with intention,” she said, like she was reading something off a Pinterest graphic.
The room felt too small. My own home suddenly became foreign.
I stood up, quietly and deliberately. My knees felt shaky but I didn’t let it show. Without a word, I walked over to the door and opened it.
There was a pause and a kind of silence that crackles in the air.
They got up slowly, confused. Stan looked back once and I didn’t meet his eyes.
They left but her presence didn’t.
Ursula’s perfume lingered, some vanilla-amber blend that tried to smell expensive but gave me a headache. I closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling like I’d been holding my breath since they walked in.
I knew then: this wasn’t going to be a shared journey.
This was going to be nothing but a war.
After that, Ursula texted me every day.
She asked me if I was walking enough. If I was eating the right fish. She told me to skip yoga and get prenatal acupuncture. She sent me name suggestions and nursery color palettes.
She also sent long, rambling messages about how her job wouldn’t grant her any maternity leave.
“It’s so unfair, Nikki. I get it, you’re carrying the twins. But it’s exhausting. I’m exhausted from the planning.”
Eventually, I stopped responding altogether.
Before I knew it, Ursula had scheduled a genetics appointment without telling me first. It was a consultation with a genetics specialist and involved us speaking about medical and family history. I was clean, Stan’s family had a lovely history of cardiac problems.
I expected him to show up, to talk about that and see what risks our twins faced in their future. Instead, Ursula showed up without Stan. She tried to take over the whole meeting. She tried to give her family medical history, as if she were the one being scanned.
The counselor gently redirected her. Twice.
By the 20-week scan, I was allowed one guest. Stan asked if I could take Ursula along instead of him.
I said no.
“She’s really invested in this, Nikki,” he said, looking sheepish. “I think she’s just excited that we’ll be getting a part to play. And… I’m proposing this weekend.”
“I don’t care how invested she is, Stan,” I snapped. “This isn’t a group project. I’m growing two humans. Not assembling a damn IKEA bunk bed.”
Naturally, three days later, Ursula became the fiancée, not the girlfriend anymore.
Things got worse after I made the pregnancy public.
I posted a quiet, smiling baby bump photo. It was just me, glowing in the afternoon sun, feeling beautiful.
Hours later, Ursula posted a glittery Instagram reel with about a hundred filters.
“Expecting Twins! The non-traditional way. I’m feeling so blessed!”
There were pink and blue balloons. Some were shaped like bottles. I didn’t even know the genders yet.
But then… Ursula announced her baby shower.
And I wasn’t invited.
That wasn’t even the last straw.
It was late March when it happened. I was about 24 weeks along, belly heavy, ankles swollen, folding tiny cotton onesies on my couch. I was halfway through an episode of some home renovation show when I heard a knock.
Not a polite one. Not a neighbor-with-a-package knock.
It was a knock like they owned the door.
When I opened it, I felt my stomach twist.
Julie. Her mother.
She was wearing a quilted vest and too much perfume. Behind her was Ursula, with her signature full face of makeup and a takeaway cup of coffee in hand, like this was a PTA check-in.
“No text? No call?” I stood in the doorway, arms crossed over my bump.
“This won’t take long,” Ursula said, brushing past her mother like she was leading a boardroom presentation.
Julie stepped forward and smiled like we were old friends at a bridal shower for a colleague.
“We’ve been talking,” she said. “And… we think it makes sense.”
“What? What makes sense?” I asked.
“For you to give one of the babies to Ursula,” she said.
“I’m sorry, what?! Are you crazy?”
“You already have two. It’s only fair,” Ursula exhaled, exasperated.
Fair.
Like this was a board game. Like I rolled double sixes and won an extra baby I didn’t need.
I could’ve lost it. I could’ve screamed. Could’ve thrown the ceramic elephant I’d just folded onesies around.
But something inside me clicked.
A stillness. A steel lining.
“Oh, you want one of the babies? Okay, I can agree,” I smiled, calm and measured.
They exchanged a look. Julie smiled wider. Ursula leaned in, her eyes narrowing.
“What do you want?” she asked.
I tilted my head.
“I want you to officially sign up as a surrogate,” I said. “For my future dog.”
“What?” Ursula blinked, looking at me as though I’d lost my entire mind.
“You know. Carry it for nine months. Natural birth. No epidural. Breastfeed it too, while you’re at it. That’s only fair, right? Life for a life?”
Julie gasped like I’d slapped her.
“That’s not the same thing,” Ursula snapped, her face twisted in disbelief. “Are you insane? Do you really think that you’re fit to be a mother if you’re asking these kinds of things?”
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s not the same thing. Because a child isn’t a handbag. A child isn’t a pet. Or a prize. Or a consolation.”
I stepped forward just enough to make them flinch.
“They’re my children. And you, Ursula, are nothing to them except their father’s girlfriend or fiancée or whatever you are.”
Dead silence.
“And just so we’re clear,” I inhaled slowly. “If you or your mother ever come near me again, uninvited, I’ll have a restraining order so fast your ‘non-traditional family’ won’t know what hit it.”
I smiled. Sweet, icy, and deadly.
“Have a nice day, ladies.”
Then I shut the door and locked it.
“Jeez, babies,” I said to my belly. “Your dad has us in for trouble, huh?”
Then I sat down with a bowl full of grapes and texted Stan.
“Your fiancée and her mother just came to my house to demand one of my twins. If I see either of them again, I’m getting a lawyer and full custody. You’ll get supervised visits only, Stan. Think carefully about who you tie your life to.”
He didn’t reply. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Or maybe he knew I meant it.
The next morning, I had an emergency consult with a lawyer. They told me custody agreements couldn’t be arranged until after birth, but if I left the state before then, my state wouldn’t be considered the legal home of the children.
That was all I needed to hear.
I packed in silence. I found a short-term rental three hours away and left the following week. I didn’t give any forwarding address, other than to my mother. There were no calls to Stan. My job was already halfway there, so that wouldn’t have been a problem for me to factor in.
It was just peace and two growing babies inside me.
For a while, it was quiet. No calls. No messages.
Until someone sent Ursula a screenshot of my original post on social media. The one where I’d finally shared my story.
And then Ursula showed up at my workplace. Not my house.
My job.
I work at a learning center for toddlers. It’s all bright colors, scheduled snack times, and the quiet hours of nap time.
Ursula slashed my tires, shattered my passenger window, and broke a row of floor-to-ceiling windows near the playroom.
Screaming. Full-throated, wild screaming.
“You stole my life, Nikki!”
Over and over again.
Our staff had to evacuate the children. Then the police came and they arrested Ursula on the spot.
The charges?
Criminal damage, trespassing, and child endangerment.
I filed an order of protection the next morning. The judge didn’t even blink. He smiled at my stomach and approved it on the spot.
“Good luck, missy,” he said. “I’m going to be a grandfather in a few months, too. I can’t wait!”
Then I filed one against Stan.
It wasn’t easy. But when your ex-boyfriend enables the kind of obsessive delusion that shows up with lattes and custody demands, you don’t take chances.
After that, I left again. But this time it was across the country with my mother.
And I started fresh.
Stan and Ursula tried again. There were emails, text messages, and even DM requests from fake accounts.
And with the new evidence, I pressed charges in my new state, and restraining orders followed.
Again.
Sometimes I sit in the quiet of my new apartment and wonder if any of it really happened. If I imagined the gender reveal party I wasn’t invited to. If I dreamed the look on Julie’s face when I told her daughter to carry a puppy.
It all feels surreal now. Like a fever dream I wrote on a napkin and left behind in another life.
The furniture here doesn’t creak the way the old stuff did. The air smells like lemon soap, hardwood, and chocolate brownies because that craving never quite went away.
There are no texts lighting up my phone at midnight, no phantom footsteps outside, no voices raised behind closed doors.
Now, it’s just me. And the shift I feel inside. The little kicks and the stretch of life beneath my ribs. They’re real—these two little humans— and they’re both mine.
I remember exactly what I walked away from… and how Stan had walked away from me first.
The babies will be here in a few weeks. I haven’t chosen names yet. I’m not rushing it. They’ll have my last name and that’s the most important part.