The birth of our daughter, Sarah, should have been a joyous occasion, but my husband, Alex, cast doubt on her paternity the moment he saw her.

He stared at her pale blue eyes and blonde hair, then asked, “You’re sure she’s mine?” The question struck me like a blow, and despite my assurances, he demanded a paternity test.

Weeks later, I was still reeling. Alex moved out to his parents’ house, leaving me alone with our newborn. Then his mother called, threatening to ruin me if the test showed Sarah wasn’t Alex’s. I was stunned by her hostility.

Finally, the test results came back, and they confirmed what I’d known all along—Sarah was his daughter. But instead of relief, Alex’s anger only grew. His mother had fueled his insecurities, and he was too blind to see how much he had hurt me. Emily, my sister, suggested he leave. And when Alex returned, remorseful and apologetic, I told him I didn’t know if I could ever trust him again.

Just as I was beginning to consider giving him a chance to make things right, I uncovered something shocking. Late one night, I found texts on his phone from a female colleague, where he had expressed plans to leave me for her. The betrayal stung more than anything else.

I immediately consulted a lawyer, filed for divorce, and moved in with Emily. By the time Alex came home, I was gone. The divorce was messy, but with the proof of his infidelity, I walked away with the house, our car, and substantial child support.

As painful as it all was, I knew I had made the right choice. Trust was broken beyond repair, and my future—Sarah’s future—deserved better.