My Mother Kicked Me Out Pregnant At 18. Now The Father Is A Swiss Billionaire And She Wants A “Family Reunion.” Should I Let Her In?

That afternoon, I found another note from the reporter tucked into my apartment door. This one offered to meet off the record just to hear my side before the story got twisted by other sources.

I held the paper in my hand feeling tempted to set the record straight and control the narrative. Then I remembered Leah’s warning that engaging at all gave the story fuel and attention.

Silence was the fastest way to make it boring and irrelevant. I tore up the note and threw it in the trash.

The following week at Janna’s second therapy session, Phyllis had her draw a picture of her family and her feelings. Janna drew herself in the middle with a thought bubble full of question marks above her head.

When Phyllis gently asked what she was wondering about, Janna said she was scared her daddy would go away again like he did before. She said this even though she knew it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know about her.

Hearing her name the fear out loud helped us address it directly instead of pretending everything was fine. That weekend, Alessandro came over with a big craft store bag.

We sat at the kitchen table with Janna between us. He pulled out a blank monthly calendar with big squares for each day and two sheets of stickers.

The stickers showed airplanes, video cameras, hearts, and stars. Janna’s eyes went wide and she immediately reached for them.

Alessandro explained that we were making a special chart to show when he would visit and when they would talk on the computer. I watched her pick through the stickers carefully.

She chose purple hearts for video call days and gold stars for in-person visits. Alessandro showed her how to count the days between visits.

He pointed at each square and let her place the stickers herself. She stuck them slightly crooked and overlapping, but she was so focused and serious about it.

When we finished, she wanted to hang it in her room right away. We taped it to the wall next to her bed where she could see it first thing every morning.

She stood back and admired it. Then she asked if she could add more stickers for special days like her birthday.

Alessandro said yes and handed her the whole sheet. I felt something tight in my chest loosen just a little watching them plan together.

Three days later, Alessandro called while I was folding laundry. He asked if his parents could have a few photos of Janna for their private family album.

My whole body tensed up and I put down the shirt I was holding. I told him I needed to think about it and we could talk later.

After we hung up, I sat there feeling my protective walls slam back into place. I thought about strangers across the ocean having pictures of my daughter.

That night I talked to Leah about it. She helped me understand that some photo sharing was reasonable, but I could set strict rules.

The next day I told Alessandro he could have three pictures that I would choose. This came with a written agreement that nothing went on social media and the photos stayed within his immediate family only.

He agreed without argument and thanked me for trusting him enough to share even that much. I picked out three photos from the last month.

They showed Janna reading a book, playing at the park, and smiling at the camera. Sending them felt like handing over pieces of her that I couldn’t protect anymore.

However, I did it anyway because Alessandro had earned some trust. The following morning, I woke up to five missed calls from Denise.

I called her back and she told me to check mom’s Facebook page immediately. I opened the app with my stomach already twisting.

I found a new album titled “My Precious Girls” with about 20 old photos of me and Denise as kids. The captions talked about cherished memories and unbreakable family bonds.

She wrote about how blessed she was to have such beautiful daughters. There were pictures from birthdays and holidays I barely remembered.

All of them were from before I got pregnant. There was not a single photo from the last five years because she hadn’t been there.

The comments were full of relatives saying how sweet the memories were and what a wonderful mother she must be. I felt sick reading it, seeing her rewrite history for everyone who didn’t know the truth.

Denise had already screenshotted every photo and caption and sent them all to me as documentation. She said she wanted me to have proof of what mom was doing in case it mattered later.

I saved everything to a folder on my phone labeled “evidence.” I tried to turn the hurt into something useful instead of letting it spiral me into old patterns of doubt.

That afternoon Leah called to tell me she’d arranged mediation with Waverly Mercer, a woman who worked with families in conflict. The session was scheduled for two weeks out.

The ground rules were already written into the agreement. My mother had to apologize specifically for each action she took.

She had to commit to starting therapy within one week and accept in writing that any contact with Janna was completely my decision. There was no guaranteed timeline.

Leah said my mother’s lawyer had reviewed the terms and she’d agreed to attend. I was surprised she’d accepted such strict conditions.

Leah reminded me that my mother probably thought she could charm her way through the mediation and get what she wanted anyway. We would see if she actually followed through or if this was just another manipulation.

Two nights later, I worked the dinner shift at the restaurant. Everything was normal until table 12.

A regular customer who came in every Thursday sat down, and I took his order like always. When I brought his food, he looked up at me with a smirk.

He said loud enough for nearby tables to hear that he’d heard I’d landed myself a rich Swiss guy. He asked if I was sure I hadn’t trapped him on purpose.

I froze for a second with the plate still in my hand and my face burning hot. Then I put the plate down carefully.

I told him that was completely inappropriate and I needed him to stop. He laughed like it was a joke, but my manager had already heard from across the room.

She walked over and told him calmly that he needed to pay his bill and leave immediately. He tried to argue, but she stood firm and said the restaurant didn’t tolerate customers harassing staff.

He threw cash on the table and left while other customers watched. My manager squeezed my shoulder and told me to take a five-minute break in the back.

I stood in the kitchen shaking with anger and relief that someone had actually backed me up. The next Monday, Alessandro and I met with our lawyers at Leah’s office.

She had prepared a temporary parenting plan that laid out everything in careful detail. Alessandro would visit every other weekend for eight hours on Saturday with Wednesday evening video calls.

Financial support would go through a structured account with documentation. Major decisions about Janna’s education, health, and activities required us both to agree.

Everything was typed up officially with signatures and witness lines. Alessandro and I sat across from each other at the conference table and signed our names on multiple copies.

Having it all documented in legal language felt safer than just trusting each other’s word. The structure protected Janna most of all, making sure neither of us could make sudden changes without proper process.

Leah filed the plan with the court that same afternoon so it became part of the official record. The mediation session happened on a gray Thursday morning in Waverly’s office downtown.

My mother arrived exactly on time wearing a nice dress and carrying tissues in her purse. Waverly sat between us and reviewed the ground rules before we started.

My mother cried almost immediately. She said she’d been young and scared herself when I got pregnant and that she’d made a terrible mistake.

Then she started adding justifications about trying to teach me responsibility and thinking tough love was the right approach. I stayed calm even though my heart was pounding.

I interrupted her and said I needed her to acknowledge specific actions without making excuses. I listed each thing she did out loud, asking her to confirm she remembered.

I listed kicking me out with two hours’ notice, changing the locks, and refusing all contact for five years. I mentioned her telling family I was dead to her.

She cried harder but kept trying to explain her reasoning. Waverly stopped her and said the exercise required acknowledgment without justification.

My mother struggled with that, wanting to defend herself. However, eventually she agreed to write everything down as a homework assignment.

Waverly scheduled a follow-up session for two weeks later to review what she wrote. The next day I met with Phyllis to talk through the mediation.

She read Waverly’s notes carefully and asked me how I felt about the session. I told her it was harder than I expected to hear my mother cry, but that I was glad I’d required real accountability.

Phyllis helped me think through whether supervised contact could eventually be safe for Janna. She said my mother would need to show sustained change over time, not just apologize once and expect access.

We worked out specific criteria together. These included six months of weekly therapy with proof of attendance and written accountability for her actions without excuses.

She would also need to respect every boundary I set without pushback or manipulation. Only after meeting all three requirements consistently would we even consider a supervised meeting between her and Janna.

The timeline felt right, giving my mother a chance to do real work while protecting Janna from someone who hadn’t proven herself trustworthy yet. On Saturday morning, the reporter’s story finally ran on a local online news site.

I made myself read it with my coffee, expecting the worst. It was actually respectful and focused on privacy rights for families in complex situations.

The reporter had fact-checked everything. Since I’d declined to comment, most of it was speculation about legal boundaries that died down within two days.

I felt relieved it wasn’t the gossip piece I’d feared. A few people at work mentioned seeing it, but nobody pushed for details.

That same afternoon my phone buzzed with a text from Denise. She said mom had been texting her all morning complaining that I was keeping her grandchild from her.

She said mom was asking Denise to talk to me on her behalf. This time, Denise didn’t forward mom’s complaints or try to mediate between us.

Instead, she texted me to say she’d told mom directly to work with the mediator and stopped trying to use her as a go-between. She said she was done being stuck in the middle.

She told mom that she needed to earn her way back into our lives through her own actions. I texted back thanking her and telling her I was proud of her for setting that boundary.

It felt like maybe Denise was finally finding her own voice instead of just trying to keep everyone happy. The next morning, Alessandro called while I was making Janna breakfast.

He asked if we could meet at the park near my apartment to talk about his schedule. I agreed and we sat on a bench while Janna played on the swings 20 feet away where I could see her.

He pulled out his phone calendar and suggested staying for a full week instead of the three days we’d planned. He said his family wanted more time with Janna and he could work remotely from the hotel.

I felt my shoulders tense up. I told him the therapist had been clear about gradual increases and that jumping from three days to seven was too much too fast for Janna.

He looked frustrated and ran his hand through his hair. He started to argue that she seemed fine.