Reddit Stories - My sibling IMPREGNATED my partner during our RELATIONSHIP, leading to my devout GUARDIANS

Episode Date: November 20, 2025

#redditstories #askreddit #aita #relationships #familydrama #betrayal #conflictresolution #boundariesSummary: My sibling impregnated my partner during our relationship, causing a rift with my devout guardians. Now, I'm torn between loyalty to family and protecting my own happiness and well-being.Tags: redditstories, askreddit, reddit, aita, tifu, relationships, familydrama, betrayal, conflictresolution, boundaries, siblings, partner, pregnancy, loyalty, happiness, well-being, family, drama, advice, supportBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/reddit-stories--6237355/support.

I hope you enjoy this story. My sibling impregnated my partner during our relationship, leading to my devout guardians evicting me and utilizing my educational savings for the infant's room before reaching out to me again after some time, begging for money when they lost everything. Life had been simple, at least, I had convinced myself. I was young, ambitious, in love, and most importantly, I had a plan. My girlfriend, Ava, and I were planning our future. We were both in college, determined to finish our degrees, to take on the world together.

My parents were supportive. They were the typical, picture-perfect, church-going couple. The kind of people who never missed a Sunday service, who preached about hard work and family values. They were strict, yes, but they were always there when you needed them. Or at least, that's what I thought. Ava and I had been together for two years. We met freshman year and connected instantly. We had our dreams, big dreams.

I had always thought I would get a steady job, eventually pay off the college loans, and maybe get a house in the suburbs. I could already picture it, us, a dog, a family. The typical American dream. But nothing had prepared me for the storm that was coming. It was late one night when Ava told me she was pregnant. The words hit me like a freight train, knocking all the breath out of me. I wasn't ready for this.

We weren't ready. We were still figuring things out. I had my own dreams, and so did she. But there it was, an undeniable fact staring us in the face. The next few weeks were a blur. We talked about it for hours, weighing our options. wanted to keep the baby. She was scared, but her heart was set. I couldn't blame her. I was scared too, but I supported her decision. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that we were

about to start a whole new chapter. And this time, it wasn't just about me anymore, it was about us, together. But everything shifted the day I found out that my brother, Josh, had been involved with Eva, too. I can still feel the punch in my gut when she had admitted it. She was crying, her face buried in her hands. She apologized over and over, but nothing could make the pain go away. My brother, the one person I had always considered my best friend had betrayed me. And not just betrayed me, but had been the one who got her pregnant. I had no words. My whole world turned upside down in that moment. How could he do this to me? How could she. I tried to put it together, but it felt impossible.

Ava and I had been in a relationship for over two years. How did this happen? I called Josh. I had to hear it from him. When I asked him about it, he acted like it was no big deal. He had never once apologized. He just said it happened and that we had to move on. Move on. My heart felt like it had been ripped from my chest. I couldn't process it. Not from him. And then there were my parents. When they found out about the pregnancy, they seemed oddly calm about it, too calm. I remember my mom's reaction as if it were yesterday. She just stared at me, blank-faced, then muttered something about God's plan. She said it was all part of a bigger picture, a test of faith, that we all had a purpose,

and we had to embrace it. My dad, who had always been the tough one, just nodded in agreement. They didn't even mention the fact that Josh was involved. They just brushed it aside like it was nothing. But when they started talking about the family, that's when I lost it. They said I should support Josh, that this was our chance to show love and forgiveness, and that I needed to let go of my anger. It was all part of God's plan, they said.

my mother actually said that. And as much as I wanted to scream, as much as I wanted to tell them how they had failed me, nothing I said could change them. They were so blinded by their faith that they couldn't see the damage this was causing me. The days that followed were chaotic. My parents kept pressuring me to forgive Josh, to help him. They tried to convince me that it was for the greater good. They told me to be a bigger man, to rise above it. They said I would. They said I would was the older brother, that I should be setting an example for the family. The hypocrisy was overwhelming. They said they had sacrificed so much for me, and now it was my turn to make things right. The more they spoke, the more I felt like I was being suffocated. I could see it clearly

now, everything I had worked for, everything I had built in my mind for the future, was slipping away. My dream of graduating, of living independently, of making something of myself, it was all slipping through my fingers like sand. My life wasn't just being derailed. It was being taken over by my family's decisions, by a betrayal I couldn't ignore, by a plan that wasn't my own. But then came the worst part, my parents turned on me. They didn't say it outright at first. But every conversation, every suggestion they made about how I should handle things, felt like an attack. They had made their choice they would support Josh and Ava, and I was expected to fall in line. I told them I couldn't.

I couldn't support Josh, not after what he did. I couldn't help with the baby. I had my own future to think about, and that didn't include cleaning up my brother's mess. They didn't take it well. my father was furious. He said I was acting selfish, and that I was abandoning my family when they needed me most. My mother's voice cracked as she begged me to reconsider. She said I couldn't turn my back on my brother, that this was a test of faith, and that I would regret it. But nothing they said made sense. They had never once held Josh accountable for what he did. They had never

once asked him to make amends. That's when it happened, the moment everything changed. They kicked me out. It wasn't some big dramatic showdown, just a cold, methodical decision. They told me I couldn't stay in the house anymore. They said they couldn't have me around if I was going to continue being so negative, so divisive. They told me to leave, and that I would never be welcomed back unless I apologize to Josh and accepted the plan. And that was it. They took my college fund, the money I had worked so hard to save and given them for safekeeping, and used it to turn my room into a nursery for the baby. I felt my whole world crumble. The room that had once been filled with dreams and hope was now being repurposed for a child

that wasn't even mine. My future, my education, my freedom was being erased in favor of a mess I had no part in. My parents said it was God's plan, they said it was all part of a higher purpose. but I couldn't see it. All I could see was the wreckage of everything I had worked for, of everything I had believed in. They didn't even apologize. They just said it was what had to be done. And they were right, in their eyes. This was their path now, and I was just supposed to accept it.

So, I walked out the door. And for the next three years, I didn't look back. The first few weeks after I left felt like a blur as if my heart was. whole world had been flipped upside down. I stayed with a friend for a while, crashing on his couch, feeling the weight of everything that had just happened. I hadn't planned on it, but it was the only option. I had no home, no support system, and nothing but my own stubborn pride to cling to. I didn't want to feel sorry for myself, but that didn't stop the wave of resentment that washed over me every time I thought about how everything had fallen apart. I couldn't

get my college fund back. I had no money to sue them. The worst part was the silence. For the first time in my life, I wasn't part of my family's plans. I wasn't part of anything. No phone calls, no text messages, no invites for dinner. It felt like they had just erased me. My parents, who had once promised me the world, had now closed their doors, treating me like I was the enemy. Every time I tried to call them, I was met with nothing but cold responses or talks about the baby. They didn't even try to understand. All they cared about was Josh and Ava and that baby. I wasn't even a footnote in their lives anymore. And Josh. He was everywhere. My parents constantly talked about him, how he was taking responsibility, how he was stepping up for Ava,

how he was going to be a great father. They acted like nothing had happened between us. They acted like I was the one who had betrayed them by refusing to help. It didn't matter that he had crossed the line in the worst possible way. To them, he was the one they could pour all their hopes into. It didn't make sense. I had given everything to help them, to do the right thing, but when I needed them most, they had turned their backs on me.

and all for the sake of a child that wasn't even mine. It was a sick joke. My entire life was being rewritten by people who didn't even care to hear my side of things. They were too caught up in their plans to even notice the destruction they had caused. I spent the next few months just trying to get by. I enrolled in classes at a community college, figuring it was better than nothing. I worked at a part-time job at a coffee shop, trying to make ends meet. I tried not to think about my past, about what my parents had done.

But no matter how hard I tried, the anger would creep in. The betrayal was always there, gnawing at me, reminding me of everything I had lost. But long after I'd stopped expecting anything from my family. The number flashed on my screen, one I hadn't seen or thought about in years. For a moment, I stared at it, debating whether to answer. My curiosity went out. I swiped to accept, lifting the phone to my ear with an almost clinical detachment. Her voice cracked through the line, small and trembling.

It was my mother, she said my name like a prayer like the sound of it alone might save her. I stayed silent, letting the weight of her own desperation pull her down further. The silence must have unnerved her because she immediately began explaining, her words tumbling over each other in a messy, incoherent stream. She told me they'd lost the house, their savings, all the stability they once took for granted, it was all gone. She said she couldn't explain it, something about a failed investment, some vague mention of a scam. She said my father had been too proud to admit they were in trouble until it was too late. Now they were drowning, barely keeping the lights on, barely scraping together enough for food.

She asked if I was still there, her voice cracking under the weight of her own shame. I told her I was listening, keeping my voice deliberately even. Detached. I wanted her to feel the distance, the chasm they had created when they turned their backs on me. She continued, her words faltering but persistent. She said they were sorry, that they'd made mistakes. She said she wished things had been different, and that she regretted how they treated me. She begged me to come home, to help them, to be the son they needed now that they had no one

else. I waited until her words ran out until her police hung in the air like smoke in a closed room. When I finally spoke, my voice was calm, measured, almost clinical. I told her it had been three years since they decided they didn't need me, three years since they took everything I had worked for and gave it to someone who hadn't earned a thing. I told her I had spent those years clawing my way back from the hole they'd thrown me into, rebuilding my life brick by brick, alone. And now, after all this time, she thought she could pick up the phone and undo all of that with a few tears and a half-hearted apology. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. Each word was like a scalpel, slicing through whatever lingering illusion she might have held about

forgiveness. She tried to interrupt, but I wouldn't let her. I told her she didn't get to rewrite history just because it suited her now. I told her I was nothing to them then, and I was nothing to them now. Her voice cracked, desperate. She asked me if I really hated them so much that I'd leave them to suffer. She said they were my parents, and that blood was thicker than water. I laughed, a sound that even startled me. I told her that blood only seemed to matter to them when it was convenient when they needed someone to clean up the mess they made. Then I said the words I knew would cut the deepest. I told her I was just a mere human, incapable of understanding God's plan. I set it with an edge sharp enough to draw blood, throwing her own holy words back at

her. I reminded her of the countless times she told me to accept God's will, to put my own feelings aside for the sake of the family. I told her that if this was God's plan, who was I to interfere? She should accept it, just as she expected me to accept being cast out. She sobbed into the phone, begging me to reconsider. She said they were sorry that they'd learned their lesson. But I didn't waver. I told her that their repentance was between them and God, not me. I wasn't their savior.

I wasn't their second chance. She tried to invoke memories of the past, of when I was a child, of the good times we had. She said she had loved me then, that she still loved me now. I told her love wasn't something you could turn off and on like a faucet. I told her love wasn't what they showed me when they threw me out of their house, when they stripped me of my dignity, stole my money and called it God's will. Her sobs grew louder and more frantic, but I didn't let it affect me. I had spent too many nights crying alone, too many days wondering if I'd ever be whole again.

Her tears couldn't reach me now, they couldn't undo what had been done. I told her I didn't owe them anything. Not my time, not my money, not even my sympathy. I told her that the choices they made had consequences, and it wasn't my job to shield them from those consequences now that they were finally feeling the weight of them. I reminded her of the nursery they built in my old room, the one that was supposed to be for my brother's child. I told her to turn to him now, to the son they chose over me.

If anyone should be stepping up to save them, it was him. She begged me not to hang up, but I was done. I told her that I hoped they would find peace in their faith, the same faith they weaponized to destroy me. And then I ended the call. For a long moment, I just sat there, staring at the phone in my hand. I expected to feel something, anger, sadness, even guilt. But there was nothing.

Just a cold, empty stillness. They had built this distance between us brick by bridge. and now it was impenetrable. I put the phone down and went back to what I was doing before the call as if nothing had happened. Maybe that's what scared me the most, that their desperation, their tears, their regret meant nothing to me anymore. They had turned me into a stranger, and I had let them. Now, there was no going back. Update 1, it was Joshua he started with a calm, almost nonchalant greeting. He said he wanted to talk. instant I heard his voice, a flood of memories rushed back, memories of the man who had been

a part of the mess that turned my world upside down. I felt my stomach tighten, and my throat go dry. But I didn't let him get to me. I refused to. I asked him what he wanted, keeping my voice cold and guarded. I wasn't about to make it easy for him. He said that he knew things were messy, but that wasn't the real issue. He told me he needed to explain something. He sounded serious like he had been sitting on these words for far too long. As much as I hated the man, I found myself listening. Part of me, no matter how much I tried to resist, still hoped for some accountability, some kind of apology.

Josh kept going, slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. He admitted that he had messed up. He said he didn't know how to handle everything and that it had all spiraled out of control. He even said he regretted it, the tone in his voice softening as he expressed that he had never intended for things to get this bad. For a moment, I almost let myself believe him. I almost convinced myself that there was remorse behind his words. But then the anger came rushing back, faster than I could stop it. My voice shook as I repeated the word sorry, my sarcasm dripping with every syllable. Was that really all he had to say? Was he seriously

trying to reduce everything to a quick apology. After everything they had done to me, their selfishness, their lies, their disregard for me, I wasn't buying it. I reminded him that his apology wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. He had taken everything from me. He had destroyed it all with one careless act. And now, he expected me to just accept his apology and move on.

Josh didn't respond right away. I could almost hear him thinking, searching for the right words to salvage the conversation. I didn't care anymore. He wasn't sorry. He was only sorry he got caught, sorry that things didn't go the way he thought they would. His regret didn't matter. His remorse didn't change the fact that I had been left behind, abandoned by my own family. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer, filled with more emotion than I had heard before.

He told me that he wasn't trying to guilt-trip me, that he wasn't asking for my money or for me to fix things for him. He said, quietly, that he was trying to make things right, for me, for Ava, and for the baby. I could feel the weight of those words hanging in the air between us. But no matter how sincere he sounded, it didn't matter. He couldn't fix this. Not now, not ever, I couldn't keep listening. I snapped at him, telling him to stop. I didn't want to hear it anymore. It was about him and the damage he had done, the choice he had made to hurt me and turn his back on everything we had once been. Nothing he said could change that. Josh's voice wavered as he apologized again. This time, it sounded more

desperate. But I was done. I had heard enough. He could say sorry a thousand more times, but it wouldn't undo the pain. It wouldn't fix the wreckage he had caused. I told him I didn't want to hear it, and with that, I hung up the phone. Update 2, one week later the phone rang again a week later. This time, it was a different name on the screen. Ava.

My brother's wife. The mother of the child they'd thrown me out to make room four. For a moment, I debated answering, but curiosity won out again. I wanted to hear what excuse she could possibly have for inserting herself into this mess. Her voice was soft, almost timid as if she were walking on eggshells. She greeted me tentatively, saying she hoped I was doing well and that it had been too long since we last spoke. I didn't respond, letting the awkward silence stretch out between us.

I wasn't going to make this easy for her. Finally, she got to the point. She said my mother had told her about the call last week, about how things were bad, really bad. She said she understood why I was upset, but she begged me to think about my nephew. She said he was innocent in all of this, that he shouldn't have to suffer because of the mistakes of the adults in his life. I felt the anger start to bubble up, slow and insidious. She had the audacity to call me, to ask me to fix the disaster they created, and now she was dragging a child into it. I clenched my jaw, trying to hold back the storm brewing inside me, but she kept going.

She said my nephew adored me, even though we'd never met. She said he deserved a chance at a good life, and if I could just find it in my heart to forgive them, I could make all the difference. I cut her off, my voice low and cold. I told her to stop. I told her I didn't want to hear another word about that child. I told her that if she thought mentioning him would magically erase the years of pain and betrayal I endured, she was even more delusional than I thought. She stammered, clearly taken aback by my tone. She said she wasn't trying to upset me, that she just wanted me to see reason. She said family was supposed to stick together, especially in times of crisis. That's when I lost it. I told her that she had no right to

lecture me about family, not after everything they'd done. I reminded her how they threw me out like trash to make room for her and her child. I reminded her how they used my college fund to prepare a nursery for the son of the man who had betrayed me in the most unforgivable way. I told her that if she wanted to talk about family, she should look to my brother, the chosen one. Where was he now, huh? Why wasn't he the one stepping up to save the day? She tried to defend him, saying he was doing his best, that he was working hard to support their family. She said he was under a lot of of stress, and they just needed a little help to get back on their feet. I laughed, bitter and sharp. I told her that her husband had been a selfish, reckless leach his entire life, and I doubted

that had changed. I told her that if she married him expecting anything different, that was her mistake, not mine. I told her I didn't know her, or him, or their child a damn thing. She started to cry, her voice cracking as she begged me to reconsider. She said, she didn't know how they were going to make it, that they were on the verge of losing everything. She said she was scared for her child's future, and that she didn't know where else to turn. Her tears did nothing but fuel my anger. I told her that if she was scared, she should have thought about that before she got involved with my brother. I told her that she made her bed, and now she had to lie in it. I told her that her child's future was her responsibility,

not mine, and that if she wanted to play the victim, she'd have to find someone else to buy into her sob story. She tried one last time, her voice trembling. She said she knew I was a good person, that deep down I still cared about my family. She said she believed I could find it in my heart to forgive them, for the sake of the child if nothing else. That was the last straw. I let the words pour out of me, sharp and cutting. I called her a coward for things. thinking she could use a child to manipulate me. I called her delusional for believing I would ever forgive them. I called her selfish for expecting me to clean up the mess her husband created. I told her that she and my brother were perfect for each other, two people who took

and took without ever giving anything in return. By the time I was done, her sobs were uncontrollable. She tried to say something, but I didn't let her. I told her to save her tears because they wouldn't work on me. I told her to tell my parents, my brother, and anyone else who cared to listen that I was done being their scapegoat. Before she could respond, I hung up. My hands were shaking, but not from regret. It was the kind of anger that left a bitter taste in your mouth, the kind that burned long after the flames had died down. I sat there for a while, staring at the phone in my hand. I thought about the child she'd mentioned, the innocent she had tried to use as a bargaining chip. For a fleeting moment, I felt a pang of guilt. But it passed quickly.

That child wasn't my responsibility. He wasn't my problem. I wasn't the one who brought him into a world of chaos and instability. No, that was on them, my brother, his wife and my parents. They made their choices. They destroyed their lives with their own hands, and now, they were scrambling to find someone to blame, someone to save them. But that someone would never be me. Update 3, 15 days later when the call came from the church, I was surprised. I hadn't thought about them in years. Religion had been such a central part of my family's life growing up, yet it had always felt more like a tool for control than a source of comfort. The voice on the other end introduced himself as Pastor Daniels, someone I vaguely remembered for my teenage years.

He said he hoped I remembered him and that he was calling to talk about my family. I braced myself, expecting the usual guilt trip or moral lecture. Instead, his tone was calm, measured, and surprisingly understanding. He said he wasn't here to take sides or pressure me into anything but wanted to mediate if I was open to it. He explained that my parents had reached out to the church, desperate for help, and mentioned my estrangement. He'd thought it might be worth a try to hear my side of the story.

before assuming anything. Something about his approach disarmed me. There was no judgment in his voice, no implied obligation. He made it clear that this was entirely my choice and that he respected my right to refuse. For the first time in years, I felt like someone was willing to actually listen, not just preach. I agreed, but on my terms. I told him this wasn't going to be a sob story or a moment of reconciliation. If he was calling to play peacemaker, he needed to understand everything.

He agreed and asked if I'd be willing to share my side of things. I started slowly, recounting the events that had led to my estrangement. My tone was controlled, almost clinical, as if I were recounting a story that had happened to someone else. Haster Daniels listened quietly, his only response is the occasional hum of acknowledgement. I told him about the years that followed, the anger and and heartbreak, the sense of betrayal that never quite went away, I described how I'd rebuilt my life piece by piece, without them, and how their recent attempts to reconnect felt like nothing more than a desperate bid to use me again. When I finished, there was a long silence.

I could hear the faint crackle of the line as Pastor Daniels processed everything I'd said. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was filled with something I hadn't expected compassion. He said he was deeply sorry for everything I'd been through, that no one should have to endure such betrayal, especially from their own family. He said he hadn't realized the extent of what had happened and that it was clear my parents had only given him a partial version of events. He admitted that he had been prepared to ask me to consider forgiveness, but now he understood that this wasn't a simple matter of letting go. He said it was clear that my family's actions had caused lasting harm and that forgiveness if it ever came, would have to be on my terms and timeline. Here was someone from the church, a symbol of the very faith my parents had used against me,

acknowledging the wrongs I had suffered. It was a strange, almost surreal feeling, like a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying had been lifted, even if just a little. I told him I appreciated his understanding, but I made it clear that I had no intention of reconciling with my family. I told him that their recent pleas for help felt like manipulation, not genuine regret. I explained that I couldn't trust them to change, and I wasn't willing to open myself up to more pain. Pastor Daniels said he respected my decision and wouldn't push me to reconsider. He said he believed that healing was a deeply personal journey and that it wasn't

his place to dictate how or when I should take that path. He said he'd continue to pray for me, not in the hollow, performative way I'd grown accustomed to, but in the hope that I would find peace in whatever form that took. I was grateful.