On our wedding anniversary, my husband’s perfect ex posted an ultrasound photo on Instagram.
Her caption hit me like a freight train: “Shoutout to the amazing man who’s stood by me for ten years, and now made me a mom.”
My hands trembled as I typed a reply: “Knowingly becoming the other woman?”
Minutes later, my phone lit up with his name. His voice was ice-cold when I answered.
“Have you lost your mind?” he barked. “Sophia’s not the other woman. I donated sperm to help her have a baby on her own. End of story.”
Then came the knife to the gut.
“At least she got pregnant right away. You’ve tried three times and still failed. Maybe it’s time to face the truth—your womb is useless.”
Three days ago, he told me he was going out of town for work. No calls, no replies. I figured he was drowning in meetings. Turns out, he was right by her side at a prenatal appointment.
Later, Sophia posted a photo of a perfectly plated dinner spread.
“Sick of American food. Ethan cooked all my favorites tonight~”
I stared at the positive pregnancy test in my hand, my chest tightening. The joy I felt only moments ago was gone, replaced by a crushing weight.
Eight years of love. Six years of bending, breaking, and pretending it was all okay.
This time? I’m done. For good.
**Prelude ends**
After hanging up, I snapped a photo of the dinner I’d painstakingly prepared and the anniversary cake I’d made for him. I sent it to Ethan.
His reply came in a flash.
“Is it your birthday?”
“I’m on a flight. Can’t make it back today. Celebrate without me.”
I let out a dry laugh and tossed the cake in the trash.
It didn’t matter if it was my birthday or our anniversary. Ethan never remembered. But he had a whole notebook dedicated to Sophia, meticulously documenting every little thing about her since high school.
I set the pregnancy test result down on the table. I’d planned to give it to Ethan as a surprise during dinner. But now? It felt utterly pointless.
Six years of marriage, and not a single child. Three rounds of IVF, each one more grueling than the last, and all of them failed.
I never thought this time would be any different. But somehow, here I was, pregnant.
Just as I was starting to wrap my head around it, I saw Sophia’s post on Instagram.
Who knows? Maybe she used my husband’s sperm for her IVF on the same day.
And there I was, completely in the dark, none the wiser.
I sat down in front of my meal, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I needed to, for the baby. But the smell of the rich food made my stomach churn. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
The cramps in my abdomen were getting sharper.
And then, the worst thing happened. I felt a rush of warmth between my legs. Blood soaked through my pants.
I froze, panic flooding my chest.
Could this be a miscarriage?
As angry as I was with Ethan, I couldn’t lose this baby. He was my miracle.
I grabbed my phone, desperate to drive myself to the hospital.
But as soon as I opened the door, pain coursed through my body, and my legs buckled beneath me. I slid down the wall, barely able to hold myself up.
I’d spent most of the day at checkups. I’d been hoping Ethan would rush home, and we’d at least have a moment to celebrate our anniversary. Instead, I was alone, preparing food for a celebration that was never going to happen.
Maybe it was just low blood sugar.
I took out my phone, trying to call 911, but I could barely see straight, my vision swimming.
That’s when the door next to me clicked open. My neighbor saw me crumpled on the floor and rushed over.
“What happened?”
I let out a shaky breath and asked him to take me to the hospital.
At the clinic, the doctor told me it was a threatened miscarriage. He prescribed a handful of meds, his voice stern.
“You need to be careful. This pregnancy is fragile. No stress, no heavy work.”
I saw the confused look on my neighbor’s face and explained, “He’s not my husband.”
“My husband’s away… on a business trip.”
The doctor nodded and then gave me one last piece of advice.
“Make sure you send this to your husband. As a father, he needs to start taking responsibility for his pregnant wife.”
I forced a smile, but it was bitter.
I bet he’s a pro at taking care of everyone else. Just not me.
