Leaving The Woman Who Gifted Her Twins To Another Man

My wife, Sienna, is a concert pianist. I spent five years of my life trying to win her over, a devotion that bordered on the absurd. She finally agreed to be with me, but after we married, she insisted she couldn’t have children. She always claimed it was for her career—her art—the grueling practice schedule, the touring. I knew her ambition; I was also tired of waiting. So, I did the unforgivable: I subtly compromised the barrier between us. I poked a few tiny holes in the rubber. Sienna finally got pregnant. Twins, no less. Just as I was drowning in the sheer, dizzying joy of becoming a father, I scrolled through her colleague’s social media feed. It was a screenshot of a pregnancy test—Sienna’s actual results—and a caption. “Thank you, Sienna, for finally making my dream of fatherhood come true.” “So excited for my twin babies!” The words hit me like a lightning strike. I felt the floor drop out from under me. I was a punchline. I had been living a joke. I packed my bags that night, during her colleague’s birthday party. I took all my clothes, my books, my chargers—everything that was definitively mine. The only thing I left on the writing desk was the signed divorce agreement.

1 Sienna came home and found me sitting on the living room sofa, my phone still displaying that screenshot: the positive test, the congratulatory post by her mentor’s student, Caspian. She was six months pregnant, moving with a noticeable, heavy waddle, but her face held a deep, pleasurable contentment. As always, her eyes drifted to the entrance table, waiting for me to place the slippers and bring a warm glass of water. But this time, I didn’t move. She paused, then bent to change her shoes herself, the enormous swell of her belly making the action clumsy and difficult. Her fingers managed to brush the laces, but she couldn’t undo them. Watching her struggle, a raw ache twisted in my chest. Any other day, I would have been on my knees in an instant, helping her off with her shoes, running her bath, maybe even massaging her back. But today, my limbs felt bound by invisible chains, completely immobilized. She looked at me, a flicker of confusion and then a slight, wounded expression in her eyes. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Usually, that simple, soft tone, that look of innocent vulnerability, was all it took for me to melt and cater to her every need. After a few excruciating seconds of delay, the ingrained habit won. I stood, walked over, and slid the comfortable indoor slippers onto her feet. Maybe it was habit. Maybe, despite everything, it was still love. My utter silence finally broke through her pleasant fog. “Grant, seriously. What is it? You look completely miserable.” I didn’t answer. I just handed her the phone. The screen glowed with the undeniable evidence. Her gaze fixed on the image and the accompanying caption. The smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure blankness, swiftly followed by a flash of panic. Then, the script was ready. She chose her words carefully, a deep breath steadying her before she spoke. “Caspian has always desperately wanted a child,” she began, her voice low and rehearsed. “You know Sylvie passed away before they could have a family. He says he’ll never remarry, and he feels it would be wrong, maybe even illegal, to just use a surrogate.” “I’m his student’s peer. We’ve known each other for years. We share a history.” “Besides, Professor Ellington has done so much for my career, asking nothing in return. When he finally asked this one thing of me… I couldn’t refuse him.” “It was just… a medical procedure. In vitro.” “As soon as the babies are born, they will go to Caspian to raise.” A desolate chill swept through me. I thought back to the nights when I had first found out about the pregnancy, ecstatic and unable to sleep. I had worried that she would be furious at my deceptive act, that she would refuse to keep the twins. But then I saw her joy, and I believed she had finally had a change of heart. I thought she wanted our family. Now, I knew. It was all a terrible, soul-crushing misunderstanding. When I was smugly congratulating myself for my clever little trick, she was probably just breathing a sigh of relief that the initial hurdle was cleared. I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. I felt like the biggest fool alive. “So you decided to hide it?” My voice was dangerously flat. “You let me run around like an idiot, fussing over you every day, planning nurseries, thinking these were our children!” “Do you have any idea how much I’ve been looking forward to this? How much joy I felt?” “And now… now I find out that I’m just collateral damage. That I’ve been living a joke!” Tears streamed down her face. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling dramatically. I felt a confusing mix of white-hot anger and deep, agonizing pain. She had been my everything; my happiness was something I’d spent half a decade fighting for. Now, it was a shattered illusion. She lifted her head, all soft, fragile pleading. “Please, Grant, don’t be angry. This was only about repaying the kindness and mentorship of Professor Ellington.” “When I deliver this baby, I promise, we can have as many of your own children as you want. I’ll give you everything you need, okay?” 2 I wanted to scream, No! I wanted to walk out and slam the door, to wipe the entire nightmare away. But in the end, all those impulses condensed into one long, hollow sigh. I succumbed to the reality of the situation—and to the last dying embers of my love and reluctance to lose her. Then, her abdomen spasmed violently. Her face turned chalk white. Panic took over. I scooped her up immediately, rushed her to the car, and drove like a maniac to the nearest emergency room. Her hand gripped the passenger seat strap, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “Call Caspian… quick, call him…” My heart seemed to clench, hard and painful, but I did as she asked. I pulled out my phone and dialed Caspian’s number. At the hospital, the doctor wheeled her into the examination room. Moments later, Caspian came sprinting down the hallway, his face a mask of frantic concern. He didn’t spare me a single glance. He headed straight for the door and slipped inside. I stood outside, glued to the spot. Through the partially open door, I saw a scene that twisted my insides. Sienna lay on the examination table, still pale, but the moment she saw Caspian, her eyes softened with a look of absolute, reliant devotion. She grabbed his hand, her voice thick with tears. “Caspian, I’m so scared… are the babies going to be okay?” He leaned over her, gently stroking her hair. His voice was a tender murmur, capable of dissolving any fear. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m here. You and the children will be fine. I promise.” I was the outsider, the invisible man. Watching their intimate exchange, the last fragile wisp of hope I’d been clinging to evaporated. She possessed a tenderness and dependence for him that she had never shown me. My heart felt like it was being fed into a grinder. I stood there, still clutching her patient file and lab reports, realizing I was utterly superfluous. I took a step toward the table, but Caspian shifted his body, a silent, definitive barrier between Sienna and me, as if I were the trespasser. His voice, though still gentle toward Sienna, carried an edge of cold, non-negotiable authority. “Sienna, you need to rest. Don’t get emotional.” He finally turned to me, his eyes cool and dismissive. “I’ve got it from here, Grant. You can go home now.” I opened my mouth, a pathetic attempt to argue, but Sienna spoke first. “Honey, why don’t you go? With Caspian here, I’ll be fine.” Her tone was a soft, urgent plea, making it clear that his presence was the one she actually required. Caspian remained where he was, a human wall standing firmly between the two of us. My heart felt suddenly hollowed out. I stood there, awkward and utterly useless, the patient file suddenly heavy in my hands. The only thing I could think to say was pathetically mundane. “Is there… anything you want to eat? I could go get something.” “I’ll buy you that seafood chowder you love. And fresh strawberries. How does that sound?” Caspian cut in immediately, a faint note of mockery in his tone. “She doesn’t like that anymore. Her tastes changed in the second trimester. Didn’t you know that?” I froze. I looked at Sienna, desperate for a rebuttal, a defense. She only lowered her head, nervously twisting the corner of the hospital sheet. Her voice was weak. “Hmm… yeah. I don’t really want that right now. It sounds kind of heavy.” My heart sank. I’d bought her that exact chowder just a few days ago, and she had eaten every spoonful, thanking me with a kiss. Now, she was telling me she was sick of it. 3 The misery was a suffocating weight, but I forced my voice to remain calm. “Then what do you want? I’ll go get it right now.” Caspian preempted me again, pulling a beautifully packaged box of pastries from his pocket. He offered them to Sienna. “I made a quick stop. These are your new favorite flavors, aren’t they? Try one.” Sienna took the box, a genuine, delighted smile lighting her face. Her voice was suddenly lighter. “Thank you, Caspian. You always know exactly what I want.” I stumbled out of the room, shell-shocked. Was this the “no influence” she had promised? Caspian stayed with her the entire time she was admitted. On the day she was discharged, I drove to the hospital early, a massive bouquet of her favorite white lilies in my hand. But when I pushed the door open, the scene inside struck me motionless. Sienna was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Caspian was kneeling, lacing up her shoes. Professor Ellington, her esteemed mentor—the elderly man who had always been polite to me—stood nearby, holding a small overnight bag, a subtle, satisfied look on his face. “Sienna, the car is waiting downstairs. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go.” Sienna nodded, looking like a dutiful student. “Ready, Professor.” I stood in the doorway, the lilies suddenly feeling like a heavy, absurd prop. A profound, aching emptiness washed over me. “Sienna, I came to take you home.” She glanced up at me, her eyes completely devoid of warmth or recognition. “Grant, the Professor says I should stay at his home until I deliver. My due date is close, and it’s getting difficult to move around.” “It’s not that you couldn’t manage, but… the Professor’s house has a larger staff. They can look after me better.” Her tone was utterly matter-of-fact, as if this was a simple scheduling update that required no discussion. I was an afterthought, someone she was merely notifying, expecting my cheerful agreement. “Sienna…” I tried to speak, but the Professor was already picking up the bag, and Caspian was helping her stand. She finally met my eyes, and a flash of impatience crossed her face. “With the Professor and Caspian looking after me, what exactly do you have to worry about?” “Besides, they have a dedicated housekeeper. How can one man possibly provide the same level of care?” The Professor’s voice broke in again, edged with subtle urgency. “Let’s go. The driver is waiting.” Sienna nodded and moved with them toward the door. As she passed me, she didn’t even offer a glance, acting as if I were nothing more than a coat rack. I stood there, holding a bouquet of slowly wilting lilies, completely gutted. Back home, I sat in the echoing silence of our living room. I stared at the dead lilies in my hand. The image of the hospital room—Sienna’s coldness, Caspian’s smugness, the Professor’s condescending authority—kept replaying in my mind. It was in that moment that the decision became absolute. I needed a divorce. Just as I sank into the black hole of my confusion, my phone rang. The name on the screen made my eyes snap open. Sienna. Already? Did this mean she hated staying at the Professor’s house? Was she calling to come home? 4 The sudden rush of hope completely overwhelmed the misery. My voice was tight with an unwarranted surge of joy. “Sienna, are you—” She cut me off before I could finish. “You need to bring me a few changes of clothes. I can’t stand these borrowed robes.” “Also, Caspian’s birthday is coming up. The gift I bought for him? I need you to bring it over.” My throat suddenly went bone-dry. I knew exactly which box she meant. When I first saw it—beautifully wrapped, elegant—I assumed it was my own delayed birthday gift, since Caspian and I were born only a month apart. I let out a silent, ragged laugh. Tears pricked my eyes. I had been delusional. I forced a tight smile onto my face, saying only, “Alright.” When I arrived with her clothes, Professor Ellington’s home was a flurry of activity—they were setting up for Caspian’s party. Most of the guests were music colleagues, fellow students, and prominent figures in the local art scene. The party space was exquisite, romantically lit, with soft, classical music playing. Sienna was seated next to Caspian, a violin held in her hands. He was at a grand piano, his fingers hovering over the keys. Their music began, intertwining perfectly, an undeniable, breathtaking harmony. They were the very definition of a Golden Duo. Their eyes met constantly, exchanging a profound sense of recognition and history, as if the rest of the world had dissolved and only the two of them existed in a white-hot spotlight. The crowd erupted in applause. People whispered, their voices carrying easily in the silent afterglow. “They truly are a perfect pair! A match made in artistic heaven.” “I heard they grew up studying music together. They’ve always shared this soul-deep harmony.” I stood frozen in the corner. The more beautiful their music became, the more profoundly I felt my own displacement. The sheer, overwhelming feeling of being an intruder, of being utterly irrelevant, crashed over me like a tidal wave. I turned silently and left the party. I started packing my belongings into my suitcase, the movements mechanical and numb. Finally, I walked to the desk, pulled out the drawer, and retrieved the divorce agreement. The pen in my hand trembled slightly, but I pressed down and firmly signed my name. I placed the agreement on the desktop, next to a small, single key. It was the key to our home, and it was my final goodbye. I wheeled my suitcase out the front door and didn’t look back. But just as I reached the sidewalk, my phone started ringing again. 5 I stared at the name flashing on the screen, feeling it stab and twist in my heart. The tears I had held back finally broke free. It was Sienna. I didn’t want to answer; I was terrified I’d waver. The phone rang until it fell silent. Then, a text message alert. From Sienna. “Grant, why aren’t you answering your phone?” “You drop off my things and leave without a word? That is incredibly rude!” “I was just talking about you to the Professor, telling him you’re a sharp businessman, tactful and well-mannered. You just completely made me look bad!” The sheer self-absorption in her angry text was a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, killing the last flicker of hope. In love, the person who cares the most is always the one who loses everything. I bought a ticket and returned to New York City. My life was not what Sienna believed. My mother is the legendary concert pianist, Minerva Stone. My father is the celebrated composer, Rory Stone. My parents had wanted me to follow in their footsteps, but I had absolutely no musical talent and fiercely rejected the art world. I went to business school to escape their control, creating a rift that lasted years. That’s why I hadn’t returned home. When Sienna and I got married, I hired actors to play my parents. Sienna met them a few times, but finding no common ground with the stiff, fabricated relationship, she slowly drifted away from them. I focused entirely on our small, isolated life, only maintaining the bare minimum of contact with my real family. Sienna once told me she idolized Minerva Stone. At the time, I’d considered revealing the truth to her. But then my parents started calling, urging me to come back for a business engagement, and I decided against bringing Sienna into that world. Now, she had clearly found her true path, her shared legacy, with Caspian. It was time for me to go home. Standing before the familiar mahogany front door, I felt a mix of anxiety and excitement. Years had passed, but the house felt utterly unchanged. I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately. My mother, Minerva Stone, stood there in an elegant silk dress. Her eyes rested on my face for a few seconds, then instantly welled up. “Grant? You’re finally home…” My throat tightened. “Mom, I’m back.” My father, Rory Stone, came out of the living room, a musical score in his hand. His hair was streaked with gray, but his eyes were still sharp. He looked at me, his voice low but with a hint of undeniable emotion. “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.” The familiar sound of piano music drifted from the living room, mixing with a faint scent of cedarwood and polish. My mother took my hand, her voice laced with gentle reproach. “All these years, not a single visit. Do you know how worried your father and I have been?” “If you hadn’t come back soon, we might have disowned you.” I lowered my head, guilt washing over me. I had been stubborn, foolishly convinced I needed to completely detach from their influence. “I’m sorry, Mom. I should have come back sooner.” My father interrupted, his voice kind and accepting. “It’s over now. You’re here.” “We won’t dwell on the past.” My mother nodded, a bright smile returning to her face. “That’s right. And speaking of which, Vivian is here today. You two haven’t seen each other in ages, have you?” “Vivian?”