Just Two Months Before My Wedding, My Brother Got My Fiancé Pregnant and Wanted to Marry Her. My Mother Offered Her Money and Asked Her to Marry Her Favorite Son to Fulfill His Wish. So, I Cut Everyone Out of My Life and Left to Start Fresh. Three Years Later, My Ex-Fiancé Showed Up at My Door, Dressed Poorly, With a Child and a Letter from My Mom, Demanding I Fix the Mess My Brother Had Made. I Refused and Kicked Her Out.
Three years ago, I was engaged to a woman I’ll call Lyla. At that time, I genuinely believed she was the love of my life. We had been together for nearly five years, and our relationship felt solid. We were both lawyers, leading demanding lives, but we always made sure to prioritize each other. The year I proposed was supposed to be the happiest of our lives.
But that same year, something unexpected happened: she lost her job. The loss came after she was found breaking some company rules. The company let her go, and it left her reeling. Work wasn’t just a job for Lyla; it was part of her identity.
She threw herself into the job hunt, but opportunities were scarce. Through all of this, I tried to be as supportive as I could. I assured her that she didn’t need to worry about finances; I saw it as my responsibility to take care of her. With her newfound free time, she decided to pursue a dream of hers: learning pottery. She enrolled in a local class, the same class my brother, Mason, went to.
Let me tell you about Mason. He’s my complete opposite. While I was the responsible one, he was the quintessential troublemaker, a carefree playboy who rarely took anything seriously. Lyla had met him early in our relationship and knew what he was like, so I thought their paths crossing was just a coincidence. Looking back, that was when things began to shift.
In the span of a few weeks, they became surprisingly close. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Mason offered to pick her up from class sometimes. Lyla would come home and excitedly tell me stories about what they had done. But then their interactions extended beyond pottery. They began hanging out on weekends, visiting art museums, checking out new restaurants—activities Lyla and I would typically enjoy together.
As time went on, she was spending far more time with Mason than I was comfortable with. She even began skipping date nights with me to hang out with him. I’m not the type to let things fester, so one evening, I confronted her. I asked her point-blank if there was something going on.
Lyla was taken aback, offended. She flatly denied it, insisting her time with Mason was purely platonic, like hanging out with a younger brother. She seemed genuinely hurt that I’d even suggest something more, and for a moment, I felt guilty. But deep down, her reassurances didn’t ease my mind.
Things came to a head just two months before our wedding. I was working tirelessly, juggling an intense workload to make sure everything was in place financially. I was shouldering most of the burden, and my hours at the office had grown longer. I wasn’t around as much as I should have been. Maybe that gave them the opportunity they needed.
One evening, I came home early from a business trip, looking forward to surprising Lyla. As I pulled into the driveway, I immediately noticed my brother’s car parked outside. It was already past 9:00 p.m. As I unlocked the door, I could hear faint laughter. The living room was empty, but the TV was on, its flickering light casting shadows across beer cans scattered on the floor. Then I saw it: Lyla’s clothes and undergarments, lying haphazardly among them.
My stomach dropped. I knew in that instant what I was about to walk into. I walked slowly, my heart pounding, towards the bedroom. I reached the doorway and stopped. They were there, Lyla and Mason, tangled together. They were so absorbed in each other that they didn’t even notice me.
Normally, I’m a calm person, but this was a betrayal of the highest order. Without a word, I stepped into the room and grabbed Mason by the back of his neck. I yanked his face away from Lyla’s, and the shock on his face was almost satisfying. He stumbled, mumbling apologies, but his words meant nothing.
I punched him square in the nose. The sickening crunch of bone gave me a grim satisfaction as blood began to pour down his face. I hit him again and again. He stumbled backward, crying for mercy. When he was on the floor, bloodied, I turned my attention to Lyla. She sat on the bed, trembling and sobbing.
I looked her straight in the eyes and said, my voice cold, that she had ten minutes to get out of my house. She started pleading, apologizing, claiming she could explain. I glanced at my watch. “You’ve got nine minutes left.”
The tone of my voice must have told her I wasn’t bluffing. She scrambled off the bed and began getting dressed, grabbing a suitcase and packing whatever she could. As she dragged her half-filled suitcase down the stairway, she turned to me one last time, begging me to listen. Without a word, I reached for her hand, slid my engagement ring off her finger, and pushed her towards the door. I slammed it shut behind her, her sobs muffled on the other side.
I called my parents. My dad was furious, my mom shocked. They came over immediately. My mom, a nurse, took charge of Mason’s injuries. My dad pulled me out to the backyard. A little while later, Mason came outside, his face bruised and bandaged. He apologized for betraying me, but then he dropped the bombshell: he was in love with Lyla. He showed me their messages, conversations full of flirty texts and Lyla confessing how unhappy she was in our relationship.
My rage boiled over again. My dad, listening quietly, finally had enough. He scolded Mason harshly. But my mom’s reaction was different. Mason had always been her favorite. She told me that regardless of what I did, I needed to forgive my brother. She said he seemed genuinely remorseful. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I cut her off and told my parents to take Mason and leave.
In the weeks that followed, I was still grappling with the emotional fallout. Then, out of nowhere, I received a phone call from Mason. He informed me that he and Lyla had just found out that she was pregnant, and the baby was his. He told me that he wanted to marry her and wanted my blessing. The audacity was unbelievable.
My mother’s reaction only made everything worse. She seemed to view the pregnancy as some kind of divine intervention. “It was God’s plan, son. Maybe Mason and Lyla were always meant to be.” Her words hit me like a slap. I told her outright that if she chose to side with them, our relationship was over.
My mother offered Lyla financial support, but with a catch: she and Mason had to get married. Mom was relentless, refusing to entertain the idea of her grandchild being born out of wedlock. When I found out they were actually getting married and had started sending out wedding invitations, I was furious. I kept my word and cut my mother and brother off from my life. That’s when I knew the only way to escape was to leave the city entirely.
Three years have passed. I rebuilt my life piece by piece, cutting ties with almost everyone except my dad, who respected my decision. I made new friends, found a sense of normalcy, and worked hard to leave the past behind. So imagine my shock when I found Lyla on my doorstep yesterday.
I almost didn’t recognize her. Her clothes were shabby, her face pale and gaunt. She stood there clutching the hand of a little girl who couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. The child had Mason’s sharp features.
“What are you doing here?” I finally broke the silence.
Her eyes welled up with tears. She asked if she could come in. My initial instinct was to say no, but I glanced at the little girl and couldn’t bring myself to be rude. I stepped aside.
I already knew she wouldn’t have found me on her own. I hadn’t given my address to anyone except my dad. Instead of answering immediately, Lyla reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. I opened it and recognized my mom’s handwriting. My stomach churned as I read. My mom had written that it was my responsibility to fix the mess Mason had created. She laid out how Lyla and her daughter, Jesse, were struggling, how Mason had left them, and how, as Mason’s brother, I should step up and take care of them.
I looked up at Lyla, confused and angry. “What is this supposed to mean?”
That’s when Lyla broke down. According to her, Mason had been unfaithful from the beginning. Three months ago, he had abruptly packed up and left. No explanation, no note. He just disappeared. Since then, Lyla had been on her own, with no job, no savings, and no home. My mom had been giving her money, but now, with Mason gone for good, my mom had decided she no longer wanted to be responsible. She wanted me to take care of them.
I was completely repulsed. My mother had not only sided with Mason during the initial betrayal but was now attempting to dump the consequences of his actions on me.
I immediately told Lyla, quite bluntly, that she had no right to expect any help from me. This wasn’t my child. She wasn’t my fiancée anymore. This was not my responsibility. She started to cry, saying she had nowhere to go, that what little money she had left was spent on gas to come and see me. I ended up giving her a few hundred dollars before asking her to leave.
Since then, though I know what I did was right, I can’t help but feel a bit guilty. I feel sorry for that poor child.
My mom’s behavior is completely baffling. The fact that she’s trying to guilt me into helping after everything feels incredibly selfish. My dad, by not challenging my mom’s manipulative behavior, also played a part in this. I plan on having a talk with him soon. The fact that Lyla showed up with a sob story only highlights her desperation. What I did—giving her money but not offering more—was an act of setting boundaries.
I talked with my parents about everything. I called my dad and asked Point Blank why he agreed to share my location.
“I’m sorry, son, I really am,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. “We’ve tried everything we could to help Lyla, but with Mason gone, we could only do so much. Your mom begged me. She said maybe if you saw her, you’d want to help.”
I felt my frustration rising. “She betrayed me with Mason, and now you want me to help her?”
He told me he understood, but Lyla and Jesse were family, too. He believed I was their only option.
I told him that he and I were done. My voice didn’t falter as I spoke. “Don’t call me again. You made your choices, and I’m making mine.” I hung up and immediately blocked his number. What my dad has done is unforgivable.
It’s been almost a month since then. I was finally able to track down Mason with the help of a buddy. Turns out, he’s been living with his latest fling a few towns away, pretending he has no responsibilities. The fact that he could be so casual about abandoning his own flesh and blood made me sick. After I found out where he was, I forwarded his address to Lyla. I didn’t want to get involved, but I didn’t want her to feel completely helpless either. That was my final act in this saga. I’m moving forward with my life, and I have no intention of letting any of them drag me down again.