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Then came the real blow.
“I want full custody.”
My hands clenched. “No. Absolutely not.”
“She’s just a baby,” she argued. “She needs her mother more than anything. You can see her whenever you want, I swear. I would never keep her from you.”
I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want our daughter to grow up in a bitter warzone. So I agreed. A month after the divorce, she remarried.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had my suspicions—late nights, secretive texts, a distance between us long before she asked for the divorce. But I never had proof. Now, I didn’t need it.
I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach. Maybe she was happy. Maybe this man would be good to our daughter.
At first, she kept her promise. I visited often, held my daughter in my arms, and felt like a father. But little by little, things changed.
“She’s sick today,” my ex would say when I called.
Or: “We have plans, maybe next weekend.”
Then, the texts started going unanswered. Calls rang and rang with no answer.
One day, I showed up at the house. My hands shook as I knocked.
She opened the door, her smile tight. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see my daughter.”
She sighed. “You should’ve called first.”
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“Well, she’s asleep now.”
I knew she was lying. I could hear the TV inside, cartoons playing. My daughter’s laugh, faint but clear.
“I’ll wait.”
Her expression hardened. “You’re making this difficult.”
“No, you are,” I shot back. “I have a right to see her.”
She exhaled sharply. “I don’t have time for this.”
Then she slammed the door in my face. That was the beginning of the end.
Weeks passed. I tried everything—texts, emails, even going through mutual friends. Nothing worked. I missed my daughter’s second birthday. Not by choice. I missed her first words, her first real steps.
I felt like I was losing her. Then one night, sitting in my car outside their house, staring at the lights glowing through the curtains, I decided I had had enough.
I got out and walked to the door. My heart pounded as I knocked. A moment later, it opened just a crack. But it wasn’t my ex-wife standing there. It was him. Her new husband.
His face was tense, his jaw tight. His eyes darted behind him, scanning the room like he was afraid someone was watching.
“You need to leave,” he whispered.
I frowned. “Where’s my daughter?”
He hesitated. “There is no daughter.”
My blood turned to ice. “What the hell are you saying?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “She has a new father now. You need to leave.”
Panic rose in my chest. My hands curled into fists.
“I’m not leaving until I see my daughter. Where is she?”
My ex-wife stepped into the hallway, her arms crossed, lips curled into a slow, cruel smile.
“You will never see her again,” she said.
And just like that, my world shattered. A sharp, hot rage spread through my chest. My hands clenched. My breath came fast.
I took a step forward, ready to push past them, ready to search every room in that house if I had to. My daughter was here—I could feel it.
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