Introduction

I worked double shifts, saving every penny, convinced our family was barely making ends meet.

My husband, Mark, managed a struggling car dealership, but for Thanksgiving, he booked a table at The Grand Steer.

I arrived, envisioning a rare, happy family meal with Emily and him.

Instead, Mark was there with our seven-year-old daughter, Emily, and his visibly pregnant high school sweetheart, Jessica.

My heart froze as I overheard him casually explain he'd "taken care of" our beloved dog, Buster, because Jessica found him an inconvenience.

When I confronted him, Emily, my daughter, shockingly screamed, "I wish Jessica was my mom! You always cared more about that stupid dog than me!"

Utterly decimated by their betrayal, I filed for divorce and, in a moment of raw despair, told Mark to take full custody of Emily.

Weeks later, a frantic call: Emily was in a severe car accident, needing a critical A-negative blood transfusion.

But I'm O-negative, and Mark always claimed O-positive.

The doctor's next words chilled me: "O-type parents cannot have an A-type child."

The horrifying truth crashed down.

My entire motherhood, the difficult IVF, Mark's secret files calling Emily "their legacy"-it was all a lie.

She wasn't my child, but Jessica's, a cruel deception orchestrated through an embryo switch.

My world exploded, but from the ashes, a cold, unyielding fire of revenge ignited.