Cast Out With My Ten-Day-Old Twins, I Made One Call That Turned Their Perfect Life Upside Down

15 December 2025

5 minutes read

“Get out and take your bastards with you!” my mother-in-law screamed, her voice sharp and wild. As she shouted, she spat straight at my face while my husband pushed me and my ten-day-old twins out into the freezing night. They truly believed I was a weak, poor designer they could throw away like trash. They had no idea I was the eight-billion-dollar CEO who owned the house they lived in, the cars they drove, and even the company my husband worked for. Standing there in the cold, holding my babies, I made one phone call. Not to ask for help—but to release a truth that would one day make them beg for the very poverty they forced on me.

They threw me out into the middle of the night with my newborn twins, the cold biting into my skin. My mother-in-law’s spit slid down my cheek. My husband stood there like a statue, silent and unmoving. They yelled insults at me—calling me useless, garbage, a parasite. What they did not understand, in their blind arrogance, was that every part of their comfortable lives belonged to me. And I was ready to take it all back—slowly, carefully, and without mercy.

They knew me as Haven. Or at least, they thought they did. What follows is the story of deep betrayal and the revenge that came after. If you have ever been underestimated, if you have ever been betrayed by people you trusted most, stay with me. Watch what I did to them—because they never saw it coming.

Let me go back to the beginning.

Four years earlier, I was not Haven. I was Catherine Monroe—the youngest CEO to ever lead Apex Innovations, a quantum technology company worth eight billion dollars. Yes, billion. I built it from the ruins of my parents’ small tech business, which they left behind when they passed away. I was only twenty-three then, fueled by grief, intelligence, and a quiet, burning anger. In five years, I turned that dying company into a global powerhouse.

But success came at a cost.

My first fiancé, a man I loved deeply, planned a car accident to steal my inheritance. He almost succeeded. I survived the crash, but something inside me died that day—my ability to trust.

So when I met Ryan Wallace at a charity event, an idea formed in my mind. I decided to test something. I created a new identity: Haven, a freelance graphic designer with a simple life and limited income. I kept my real business life under my late mother’s last name. Only my lawyer and my assistant, Marcus, knew the truth. I needed to know—could someone love me for who I was, not for my money?

Ryan seemed perfect. He was kind, charming, and attentive. He worked as a manager at a tech company he believed was independent. What he didn’t know was that his company was owned—deep down the corporate chain—by me. I watched him carefully before letting our lives connect. He seemed real. Honest. So I did the one thing I promised myself I would never do again.

I fell in love.

We had a small wedding by choice. From the start, his family disliked me. His mother, Helen, smiled with cold lips. His father, George, looked at me like I was something he needed to judge. His sister, Jessica, hugged me tightly and whispered, “You’d better take good care of my brother.” I should have seen the warning signs. But love made me blind.

The first year of marriage felt perfect. Ryan was my safe place. We laughed, traveled, and built a life together. I almost forgot it was all based on a lie.

Then I got pregnant.

Twins.

Everything changed overnight.

Helen’s reaction is burned into my memory. Her face twisted with anger. “Two more mouths to feed,” she snapped. “You planned this. You trapped my son.”

I stood there in shock, my hand on my stomach. Ryan said nothing. In that silence, I realized something terrible—my husband would never stand up to his mother. Not for me. Not even for our children.

My pregnancy was high-risk. Doctors told me to rest and avoid stress. Helen took that as a challenge. She moved into our house “to help,” but instead she took control. She forced me into the smallest guest room, saying I didn’t deserve the master bedroom. While the family ate hot meals, I got cold leftovers.

At six months pregnant, swollen and in pain, she ordered me to clean the entire house. “You live here for free,” she said. “You work for it.”

Jessica was worse in a quiet way. One day, while I carried laundry upstairs, she slammed into me from behind. I nearly fell. My heart raced in terror. She smiled sweetly and said, “Oops, be careful.” Her eyes told the truth—she wanted me to fall.

But the deepest pain came from Ryan. Slowly, his mother poisoned him against me. I heard them whispering. “She’s hiding something. What if those babies aren’t yours?”

Ryan began to change. Love turned into suspicion. He stayed out late. Slept on the couch. When I tried to talk, he snapped, “I’m working to support this family. What do you do?”

My heart was breaking, but I was not powerless.

I noticed things. Helen’s secret calls. The same car following me to doctor visits. Papers hidden from me.

One night, I searched her room. What I found froze my blood. She had hired a private investigator to dig into my life. There were photos, bank records, and notes. They were even trying to connect me to Catherine Monroe. They were close.

Then I found something worse.

Adoption papers.

They planned to take my babies.

That was the moment I understood. This was not cruelty—it was a plan. Helen wanted my children without me. I knew my life and my babies were in danger.

So I planned.

I called Marcus. Within hours, cameras and audio devices were installed around the house. I recorded everything. Every insult. Every threat. Every act of abuse.

The last month of pregnancy was torture. Despite doctor’s orders, Helen forced me to work. I was bleeding. Afraid. Ryan saw everything—and did nothing.

One night, Helen slapped me because I folded a newspaper wrong. I hit the counter and tasted blood. I looked at Ryan, begging him silently. He looked away.

That night, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. Then I stopped. I looked at my bruised face and made a promise.

No more tears. No more weakness.

At thirty-seven weeks, labor started in the middle of the night. I screamed for help. Helen laughed and closed the door.

I crawled and called an ambulance.

After eighteen hours, my sons were born. Ethan and Evan.

Ryan visited two days later, drunk and cold. “They look like any other babies,” he said and left.

Helen told nurses I couldn’t pay my bills.

I held my sons and decided—it would end soon.

Ten days later, I came home.

No one helped me. Jessica smashed a bottle “by accident.” I cleaned it while bleeding through my clothes.

The next ten days were hell. I cared for my babies alone. I was not allowed to rest. Helen refused to touch them. Ryan ignored them.

One morning, Helen poured my breast milk down the sink.