I remember the cold. Not just the literal chill of winter nights, but an internal, pervasive coldness that settled deep into my bones. It had been years of it, years of walking through my own home feeling like a ghost. My partner was there, physically, but the connection had withered, leaving behind a silence that echoed louder than any argument. We spoke in functional sentences, if at all. Are you home late again? Did you remember to pay the bill? The warmth, the laughter, the shared dreams… they were distant memories, obscured by a thick fog of neglect.
I ached for connection. Desperately. I wanted to feel seen, loved, important to someone. We’d tried for a baby for so long, enduring the invasive procedures, the crushing disappointments, the quiet tears shed into my pillow while my partner slept soundly beside me, oblivious or uncaring. Each failed cycle deepened the chasm of loneliness, leaving me feeling hollowed out, a shell of the person I once was. I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger, eyes rimmed with unspoken grief, a forced smile that rarely reached them.
Then, a miracle. Or so I thought.
Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman attend the 94th Academy Awards in Hollywood, California, on March 27, 2022
My partner came home one day, radiating an unusual, almost frantic energy. There had been a sudden, unexpected pregnancy, a complete shock given our history. The doctors, according to my partner, called it an anomaly, a true blessing. I was guarded at first, scarred by so many hopes dashed. But as the weeks turned into months, as I saw the scans, felt the flutter, a fragile hope began to bloom. It was terrifying, exhilarating. This was it. This was my chance to finally fill the gaping void in my life, to have a purpose, a love that was truly mine.
When they were born, it was like the sun had finally broken through the perpetual clouds of my existence. A tiny, perfect human, all innocence and wonder. Their arrival didn’t just fill my home; it filled my soul. My partner, for a brief time, seemed different too, more engaged, more present. But it was fleeting. Soon, they retreated back into their distant world, leaving me once again to navigate the emotional landscape of our home alone.
But I wasn’t alone anymore. Not truly. I had my baby.
Karley Scott Collins arrives at the 58th Annual CMA Awards in Nashville, Tennessee on November 20, 2024
And they became everything. They were my confidante, my shadow, my constant companion. Every coo, every gurgle, every tiny hand reaching for mine was a balm to my aching heart. I poured every ounce of love, every forgotten dream, every longing for connection into this child. We’d spend hours on the floor, reading books, building towers of blocks that would inevitably tumble. Their laughter was my favorite music, their sleepy breath against my cheek the most comforting warmth I had ever known.
They were the most loyal friend at home.
They didn’t judge, didn’t leave, didn’t grow distant. Their love was pure, unconditional, a boundless well from which I drank deeply, finally feeling sated. I would whisper all my fears and hopes to their tiny, uncomprehending ears, and in their innocent gaze, I found solace. They were my reason to get up in the morning, my motivation, my deepest joy. I thought I understood what it meant to love, but this… this was a universe unto itself.
Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman attend the men’s final at the US Open in New York City on September 10, 2023
Years passed. My child grew, their personality blossoming, bright and curious. I loved discovering the world through their eyes. My partner continued their pattern of emotional absence, often away for work, or simply lost in their own thoughts when home. It didn’t matter as much anymore. I had my child. My child.
The day it happened was mundane. I was cleaning out an old desk drawer in our home office, a task my partner had put off for years. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light. Underneath a pile of old bank statements and insurance documents, I found a small, unmarked envelope. It felt heavy, substantial. Probably just an old receipt, I thought, almost tossing it aside. But something made me open it.
Inside were papers. Not just any papers. A birth certificate. And a DNA test.
Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban are seen at the 2025 Golden Globe Awards | Source: Getty Images
My hands started to tremble. The birth certificate listed a different hospital than the one my partner had told me about, a different doctor. And the mother’s name… it wasn’t mine. It was a name I didn’t recognize. A strange, unfamiliar name.
Then, the DNA test results. My eyes scanned the words, trying to make sense of the columns, the percentages. It couldn’t be. It had to be a mistake, some old document from another file. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
My child. My beautiful, innocent child. The love of my life.
The test confirmed paternity with my partner. But the maternal side… a definite exclusion.
I WAS NOT THE MOTHER.
Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban attend the 82nd Golden Globe Awards in Beverly Hills, California, on January 5, 2025
My world shattered.
The cold, the loneliness, the emptiness I had felt before was nothing compared to this. This was an abyss. A bottomless, gaping maw of betrayal.
My partner. My partner knew. My partner had orchestrated this entire elaborate lie, from the “miracle pregnancy” to the manufactured birth story, all to present this child as ours.
The birth certificate had the actual mother’s name. The DNA test confirmed her parentage, and my partner’s.
This child, my sun, my moon, my entire universe… was the product of my partner’s affair.
THE MOST LOYAL FRIEND AT HOME. THE SOLUTION TO MY LONELINESS. WAS BORN OF A LIE. BORN OF MY PARTNER’S BETRAYAL.
Maggie Baugh and Keith Urban perform at the iHeartCountry Festival in Austin, Texas, on May 4, 2024
I looked at a photo of my child, smiling brightly from the desk. Their eyes, so full of life, so trusting. Did they know? No, of course not. They were just a child. My child.
My partner walked in then, home early. Their usual distant gaze.
“What’s wrong?” they asked, seeing the papers scattered on the desk, seeing my face.
My voice was a ragged whisper. “WHO IS SHE?” I held up the documents, my hand shaking so violently I thought I’d drop them.
They didn’t answer. Their face, usually so impassive, crumpled. A flicker of fear, then resignation.
“She needed a home,” they finally said, their voice barely audible. “And you… you needed a baby.”
It wasn’t a miracle. It was a calculated deception. A beautiful, devastating deception.
My child. My sweet, precious child. The one bright spot in my dark, lonely life. The one who taught me how to love again. The one who solved my deepest yearning.
Maggie Baugh performs during the iHeartCountry Festival at the Moody Center in Austin, Texas on May 4, 2024
Was the living, breathing, innocent testament to my partner’s ultimate infidelity.
My loneliness was solved, yes. But at what unimaginable cost?
EVERYTHING I THOUGHT WAS TRUE WAS A LIE.
And now, how do I look into those loving eyes, knowing the truth? How do I continue to be the parent I always dreamed of being, when the very foundation of that dream is built on such a cruel, agonizing betrayal?
I DON’T KNOW. I don’t know what to do. My heart is breaking all over again.
