They Chose Her Over Me, So I Chose Their Uncle

I stood in the cemetery on my wedding day.

Andrew Whitmore and Daniel Whitmore—the childhood friends who once vied for my heart—had returned, not alone, but with a girl. She was three years younger than me and already visibly pregnant.

They no longer fought over me. Instead, they spoke in solemn, practiced tones.

“Even though Chloe isn’t related to us by blood,” Andrew said, “now that she’s carrying our child, we have to take responsibility.”

They wanted me to look after Chloe Swift. To decide, on the day she gave birth, which one of them she should marry.