I never believed a single weekend could completely rewrite the course of my life.

Just three days before my due date, my phone rang. The call ended with me sitting on the kitchen floor, unable to move. My grandfather—someone I had barely known, someone I’d been distant from for years—had died. What stunned me wasn’t just his passing, but what his lawyer told me next: my grandfather had left me ten million dollars. He had followed my life quietly from afar, never interfering, never reaching out. The paperwork, the lawyer explained, would be finalized in a few days. Until then, I was advised to tell no one.

I decided I would tell my husband, Derek, after the baby was born.

For months, Derek had been unraveling under financial pressure. Every bill irritated him. Every small inconvenience became an argument. He blamed it on anxiety, fear of becoming a father, the weight of responsibility. I wanted to believe him.

That night, while I was carefully folding tiny baby clothes, Derek stared at me with a look I had never seen before—like I was an obligation he resented.

“I’m done supporting someone who doesn’t work,” he said flatly. “You need to leave.”

I laughed at first, convinced it had to be a cruel attempt at humor. I was eight months pregnant. My doctor had ordered bed rest because of complications. Derek knew this. He simply didn’t care.

“I’m going to give birth any day now,” I said softly, panic creeping into my voice.

He grabbed his car keys, shaking with anger. “Not my problem. I’m finished.”