On his wedding day, the groom found a basket on the church steps containing twin babies and a note

“GET RID OF THOSE BASTARDS, OR THE WEDDING IS OFF!”

My fiancée’s voice didn’t just scream; it tore through the humid air of the church steps, stripping the sanctity from the day like flesh from bone. She kicked the wicker basket with the pointed toe of her custom satin heel, sending it skidding dangerously close to the limestone edge.

She didn’t know it yet, but that single, violent motion had just unveiled a secret darker than any infidelity.