My Husband defended the Woman Who Caused My Miscarriage, So I Left Him

Lately, I’d seen that my usually cold, reserved husband also has a gentle and considerate side.

He would drape his coat over Nancy when she nodded off at the nurses’ station. He would pick the cilantro out of her meals without her asking.

Once, she casually mentioned wanting that viral apple tea from Southside and even if he finished surgery late, he’d take a detour across town just to buy it for her.

In contrast, he was far less attentive to me, his wife.

If I stayed up all night working on design drafts and complained about my back aching, he’d tell me to “get used to it.”

In two years of marriage, he had never remembered that I hated scallions. When I invited him to see a new film, he always had an excuse.

I told him I was unhappy and... he called me petty.

“Nancy’s like my little sister. Stop thinking so negatively!”

He even gave her a spare key to our apartment.

One afternoon, I came home from grocery shopping to find Nancy in my study, doodling all over my design work.

Edwin just shrugged. “They’re only sketches. Just draw them again.”

Last month, I found out I was pregnant.

When I went to the hospital for a follow-up, Nancy got my appointment time wrong. I ended up fasting for five hours and finally fainted from low blood sugar.

When I came to, I couldn’t help but complain.

Edwin defended her immediately. “Nancy’s busy, she just forgot. You’re the one with poor health—so why are 'you' blaming her?”

Five years of giving him my whole heart had taught me one thing—some people’s hearts will never warm, no matter how much you try.

That night, I messaged my old college senior overseas. “I’ll take the job at your company. I can start next month.”

The next morning, a breakfast delivery arrived.

Edwin called, his voice softer than usual. “I know you’re upset. I was too harsh last night. Just rest at home for a while.”

After hanging up, I poured the porridge down the sink. It was full of scallions.

I wasn’t supposed to go out so soon after the miscarriage, but the most urgent thing now was getting my passport in order.

By the time I left the immigration office, it was midday.

Dizzy from the morning’s errands, I was ready to go home and sleep when a message from Edwin popped up.

[Come to my office. Now.]

I thought maybe he had found the divorce papers I’d hidden. Fine. I’d explain it to his face.

I turned the car toward the hospital.

In the ward corridor, the nurses glanced at me with open disdain, whispering behind cupped hands.

“She’s got some nerve, still clinging to Dr. Andrews.”

“Word is, she demanded a huge payout and said she’d keep causing problems until she got it.”

“Bet the baby wasn’t even his. Probably got rid of it on purpose to frame Nancy. What a scheme.”

I clenched my fists and ignored those insults.

Edwin and I had kept our marriage secret. Only our families and a few close friends knew.

When I registered my pregnancy at his hospital, he insisted on keeping my identity private, worried that colleagues would think he was abusing his position to help me.

I knocked on his office door, but I got no answer. So, I pushed it open to find the place in disarray—papers scattered across the floor, drawers hanging open.

Out of habit, I began to tidy up, but then heard a startled cry behind me.

“Oh my God! What have you done to Doctor Andrews’s office?”

I turned. Nancy stood in the doorway, a tray of medical vials in her hands. She looked like she had caught a thief.

I opened my mouth to explain, but she was already lunging toward me.