Days later, Becca gave birth to a healthy baby girl under heavy protection. She truly had no family, but a kind social worker named Laya stepped in, helping her find housing and resources. Meanwhile, my husband faced court. The judge acknowledged he’d saved a baby but stressed that hitting my sister was still assault. He was sentenced to six months of anger management and one hundred hours of community service.

My sister’s boyfriend was smashed.

He had painted a nursery, believed every lie, and now realized that the woman he loved was a stranger. He vomited when shown her hormone prescriptions meant to fake lactation. The betrayal cut so deep that none of us knew how to comfort him.

When my sister’s trial began, the evidence was overwhelming. She fired her lawyer, claiming conspiracies, and interrupted proceedings with delusional rants. Psychiatric evaluations diagnosed her with pseudocyesis delusion combined with antisocial traits. She maintained she was saving babies from “unfit mothers,” refusing all responsibility.

During testimony, I described the baby shower and the foam belly. My sister glared at me without blinking. Becca testified too, clutching her newborn, her voice breaking as she admitted the terror of knowing someone plotted to steal her child. Jurors wiped tears from their eyes.

My husband testified honestly: “Punching her was wrong. But I couldn’t let a baby be kidnapped. If I had to choose again, I’d still protect that child.”

The jury needed only three hours to convict her on all charges: fraud, identity theft, attempted kidnapping, and assault. She was sentenced to eighteen years in prison with the possibility of parole after ten if she completed psychiatric treatment. She laughed in court, declaring she’d rather serve her full time than pretend she was wrong.