My Husband Wants Me to Carry the Dead Woman's Child

“Talk to a nurse or something,” he muttered.

I understood. My final value to him was nearly over. Once I carried Macey’s child to term, the “incubator” would be discarded like trash.

The fewer visits, the better. It gave me the space I needed.

Alone in my hospital room, I spent every day working from my laptop, finalizing everything for my new identity.

My college friend came through like a miracle worker.

Within a week, I had everything: a new name, fake university records, government ID, even a full set of household documents.

The name on my new identity card was Gloria Spring.

He said he was wishing for my new peace with the name. That he hoped I’d live the rest of my life with the quiet calm of a spring.

Then came the day of the surgery.

Dennis showed up unusually early. He couldn’t sit still, pacing the room with an energy that was almost manic.

A nurse came in to administer the pre-op injection. Dennis reminded her, “Make sure it’s general anesthesia. I don’t want her to suffer through it awake.”

I looked up at him and noticed the bloodshot veins in his eyes. No doubt he hadn’t been sleeping—probably too busy thinking about his precious Macey.

He caught my gaze and softened his expression with a fake tenderness. “Just relax and get some rest, Ann. When you wake up and you’ve recovered… we’ll finally be able to have our child.”

My stomach twisted. Regardless, I nodded without saying anything.

The truth was, Dr. Anderson had already told me in advance: the anesthesia would only be partial. Just enough to fake unconsciousness in front of Dennis.

I closed my eyes and felt the prick of the needle as the drug entered my bloodstream.

Moments later, as my breathing slowed and my body stilled, I heard Dennis say to the surgical team, “Macey’s body has been delivered. Be careful during the operation—don’t damage her uterus.”

“I still need her body in good condition.”

Silence.

Then his voice again, darker now. “If anything happens to Macey’s body, your hospital won’t survive the week.”

A sharp pain clenched my chest. I was his wife. And yet he never said a single word of concern for me. To him, I wasn’t even worth as much as a corpse.

Dennis tried to insist on staying to watch the surgery, but for the first time, Dr. Anderson pushed back, “No unauthorized personnel in the OR, Mr. Cunningham. Respect the protocol.”

The metal door slammed shut. And the moment it did, I opened my eyes.

Across the sterile curtain, Dr. Anderson gave me a subtle nod. “Ms. Ward,” he said calmly. “Are you ready?”

I sat up and pulled the IV out of my arm.

On the table beside me was a body bag—unzipped halfway—revealing the face that looked eerily like mine.

It was Macey.

The nurses and assistants carefully lifted her body onto the surgical table I had just vacated. I lay down in the now-empty body bag. The one meant for her.

As of today, Anna was dead.

“Let’s proceed with the ‘operation,’” I instructed.

The makeup artist, dressed as a nurse, nodded and got to work.