While away on a work trip, I checked the baby monitor, expecting to see my toddler asleep. Instead, a strange woman was tucking

him in like he was her own. My heart dropped. I called my husband, Logan—he wasn’t home, and hung up the moment I asked who she was.

Panicked, I sent my brother over. Later, he told me he heard the woman say, “When you divorce your wife,

Ben will be my son too.” That sentence shattered my marriage in an instant.

I flew home the next morning. Logan had excuses ready, but I filed for divorce that week. I won full custody,

though I allowed visitation for Ben’s sake—he didn’t deserve to lose his dad too.

Weeks later, I found the woman—Claire—on Instagram. She was a boutique stylist, all smiles. I booked an appointment

under a fake name. When we met, I showed her a screenshot from the baby monitor: her kissing my son’s forehead. Her face turned pale.

I handed her a therapist’s card. “Just in case,” I said, and left.

Logan still calls. I don’t answer. My life now is quiet—just me, Ben, and the monitor’s glow.

And every night, I whisper, “No one will ever take your place, and no one will ever take mine.”