When my husband Navid suddenly mentioned a “sister” named Fatima and her 6-year-old son Reza, I was surprised—he’d never once said he had siblings. They stayed with us for two weeks. I babysat, cooked, and welcomed them like family.
Months later, I casually brought up Fatima to his aunt, who stared at me and said, “Navid was an only child.” My blood ran cold.
I dug deeper. “Fatima” was really Maritza, an old girlfriend of Navid’s. Reza was her son—and Navid had secretly signed papers listing us as co-guardians. When Maritza abandoned the boy, CPS showed up at our door.
I was furious. Navid lied, betrayed my trust, and dragged me into something life-altering without my consent. But when I looked at Reza, none of that mattered. He needed someone, and I said yes. For a month, he lived with us. He called me his “other mom.”
Eventually, Reza’s real aunt stepped up to take custody. Saying goodbye nearly broke me, but it also freed me—from Navid, from the lies, from a marriage I could no longer trust.
Today, a postcard with Reza’s drawing hangs on my fridge: “Miss you. Thank you.”
I lost a husband. But I gained peace—and the love of a little boy who will always have a piece of my heart.
