Here’s a slightly shorter version while keeping the same style and impact:

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For seven years, Jill and I built a life filled with love, trust, and plans for the future. But just days before I proposed, a glance at her Google search history revealed a secret so shocking it changed everything I thought I knew about the woman I was ready to marry.

Jill was my best friend, my partner—my everything. She lit up a room without trying, remembered the little things, and fit into my life perfectly.

We shared the same taste in music, traveled together, and never got tired of each other. My family loved her, and hers welcomed me like their own. I never doubted her. That’s why I was going to propose.

Valentine’s Day. A quiet cabin, a warm fire, a bottle of wine. The ring—a simple, elegant solitaire—was ready. I had pictured the moment a hundred times: me on one knee, her smiling through happy tears, saying yes.

But then, things changed.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Jill still said “I love you” and kissed me goodbye, but something felt… off. Her voice lacked warmth. Her gaze seemed distant. She withdrew, little by little—coming home and going straight to the bedroom, her texts getting shorter, avoiding my touch at night.

One evening, I found her on the couch, staring at her phone.

“What’re you looking at?” I asked.

She jumped, locking the screen. “Nothing.”

A week later, in bed, I whispered, “Are we okay?”

She was quiet too long. Then, finally, she reached for my hand. “I love you,” she said softly.

But it felt… empty.

The distance grew. She got irritated easily, laughed less, and brushed off my attempts to connect. One night, she came home late, exhausted.

“Tough day?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she muttered, rubbing her face. That was it.

That night, I wasn’t snooping. I was just on my laptop. Jill had used it earlier—nothing unusual. But when I opened my browser history, my heart stopped.

“How to tell someone I have a child I hid for years?”
“How to say it without losing them?”

My stomach twisted. A child? A lie? We’d been together for seven years—she would’ve told me. Right?

I scrolled further. More searches. Some worse.
“Will he hate me if he finds out?”
“Can a relationship survive a huge lie?”

My hands shook. My breath came shallow. It was real. And it was about me.

Jill was in the bedroom, scrolling her phone. When she looked up, she smiled—forced.

“You okay?” she asked.

I sat on the bed, my fists clenched. My heart pounded. “I saw your search history.”

Her face went pale. Silence stretched between us. Then, suddenly, Jill dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders shaking.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” she whispered. “But I was scared.”

I swallowed hard. “Tell me now.”

She squeezed her hands together, trembling. “I have a child.”

The world stopped.

“You… what?” My voice barely worked.

Her eyes glistened. “I had her when I was fourteen.”

I couldn’t move.

“My parents raised her as their own,” she choked out. “They told everyone she was their daughter. Even she doesn’t know the truth.”

The room tilted. My mind raced.

“So… your little sister…”

Jill nodded, fresh tears falling. “She’s not my sister. She’s my daughter.”

The air left my lungs. Everything I believed about Jill, about us, shattered in an instant.