He Shared My Breast Milk, I Chose Divorce

My reaction left David Miller completely stunned.

He questioned me, asking where my kindness had gone, where my innocence had gone.

“Rachel, you used to be different. You always helped others when they were in trouble. Why are you so cold and cruel now? It’s just a couple of bags of milk, and you react like this?”

Then he added, “How about this—give it a few days, and I’ll go help take care of the little girl next door. Then you won’t have to be angry anymore.”

When Margaret Miller said this, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

From my pregnancy to labor, and even during my postpartum recovery period, she never looked after me—not even once.

Of course, I had my own parents, so I didn’t need her help.

But now, at this very moment, she suddenly wanted to help the neighbor?

I replied flatly, “You can take care of whoever you want. Either way, I’m ending this marriage today.”

Margaret was shocked, left speechless by my bluntness.

Robert Miller pointed at me, trembling with rage, muttering, “This family is cursed, cursed indeed!”

David glared at me, his expression dark and ugly.

“What’s wrong with you today? Have you lost your mind?”

“Then just take it that I’m crazy. Sign the papers and let me go.”

The words had barely left my mouth before David suddenly slapped me across the face.

The burning pain spread across my cheek, but I forced myself to ask through clenched teeth,

“Was that slap enough of a reason for divorce?”

He sneered.

“You asked for it, don’t blame me.”

Then, without hesitation, he grabbed the divorce papers and tore them to shreds right in front of me.

A moment later, he softened his tone, trying to explain.

“Baby, I didn’t mean it. I work hard all day, then at night I even help the neighbor take care of her baby. As my wife, you should understand how hard I’ve been working.”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“You want me to understand you? Have you ever once tried to understand me?”

Before I had Sophie, I was a senior executive, earning a comfortable salary with benefits.

I gave up my career to raise our child.

David had promised he would work hard and make sure our family lived happily.

He earned a decent wage—over ten thousand a month—but only half of it ever made it home.

Our living expenses came from my savings. He told me that money would be kept aside for Sophie’s education.

I believed him.

But the last time I went to the bank, after saving diligently for over three years, the clerk told me there was only two thousand left.

I thought it had to be a mistake.

I checked again and again, until it hit me—the money had been spent long ago.

The so-called “college fund” for our daughter was nothing but a lie.

David scowled.

“You do nothing at home but eat and play. My parents handle all the cooking and housework. What exactly is it that you need me to understand?”

“Cooking? Housework?”

I turned to look at Robert and Margaret. Their eyes darted away.

The truth was, I’d started doing chores before I was even fully recovered.

As for cooking—well, I laughed.

“Put your hand on your heart and tell me, do your parents even know how to cook?”

“What a joke. If they didn’t, how did they take care of you?” David snapped.

I pressed on, “Who do you think’s been handling everything? You really believe it was them?”

He was furious now. “You can’t be saying you did it all yourself?”

“Who else?”

I took a deep breath, not letting him argue further.

“So tell me, David—are you divorcing me or not?”

At that moment, the sound of a child crying suddenly came from the apartment next door.

Emily Brooks cracked her door open just slightly, and the baby’s cries instantly filled the hallway.