Before dawn, I carefully ironed my son Lucas’s shirt for his first day of first grade, brimming with excitement I wished my husband, Travis, shared. He lay sprawled on the couch, hungover, brushing me off when I tried to engage him. Lucas had been asking for weeks if Daddy would be there, and I’d promised him he would.
At school, Travis finally showed up—late, disheveled, and indifferent. I stepped away briefly, only to return in time to hear Lucas’s teacher call him “Jamie.” My heart stopped—and then I watched, stunned, as Lucas responded without hesitation. Travis barely batted an eye.
Later, Travis announced an impromptu “father-son” trip to Grandma’s. Suspicious, I followed them to a house I had never seen before. Lucas sprinted toward the pool while Travis greeted a woman on the porch with a kiss—his son’s teacher, Jenna. Lucas eventually confessed that Travis had asked him to pretend to be “Jamie” to make Jenna happy; she had lost her own child.
The betrayal was staggering. That night, I confronted Travis’s mother, revealing everything and making it clear I was done. I kept the house, gained custody of Lucas, and preserved my dignity. Travis lost me, and I swore no one would ever call my son by another name again.