When I found “Hope She Was Worth It” spray-painted on my car, my pregnant wife Emily looked at me with tears in her eyes — and for the first time, I saw doubt. I swore I had never cheated, but the damage was done. Doubt spreads like rot, twisting everything it touches. And just like that, the happiest day of our lives — the day we heard our baby’s heartbeat — turned into one of the darkest.

I stood alone that night, scrubbing at the hateful words, wishing I could erase the suspicion they’d planted in Emily’s heart. That’s when a voice cut through the silence: “Don’t bother thanking me. You’re welcome.” I turned, and there was my sister, Claire, smug and unbothered, admitting she had written it. She claimed she was “helping” me because I’d once confided that I was scared about becoming a father.

Emily and I confronted her together. With a sigh, Claire confessed everything — how she wanted Emily to leave, how she thought I wasn’t ready for a baby. Emily’s tears fell as she turned to me. “You really didn’t cheat?” she whispered. “Never,” I promised, and the relief in her eyes nearly broke me. But as Claire tried to justify her betrayal, so