My Wife Refused Kids—Until I Learned She Had Three

After speaking, she stood up and looked at me in silence.

"Zach, I know this is hard for you to accept right now. That’s okay... take your time, think it over. I still hope you can accept the children. After all, they carry my blood. I can’t just turn my back on them."

She gathered all the relatives and friends, leading them out of the house, leaving me alone on the sofa, drained and empty.

I grabbed a bottle of wine, leaned back, and drank in silence.

Moments later, my phone buzzed. The private investigator had sent me a video and a series of photos. I opened them with a bitter smile.

Ever since the truth came out, my mother-in-law and her friends stopped hiding. The detective captured everything—clear, undeniable proof.

There they were, a happy family of five, openly visiting a hotel playground. They dined in a restaurant, played games together, and attended the children’s classes as a unit.

They were just ordinary photos, yet they made my chest ache.

If my father were still alive, he would have slapped me across the face and called me a fool.

But he’s gone now. Liver cancer took him a year ago.

Before he passed, he gripped my hand and told me to live well, not to let this burden weigh me down. "If it really doesn’t work out, just adopt a child," he had said.

I thought I had cried all my tears over the past few days, but seeing Sabrina with her real family—laughing, whole, complete—broke me all over again.

How? How could she treat me like this after everything I had done for her?

And my mother-in-law—she was no different.

No matter how hard times got at the furniture factory, I never once failed to send her 20,000 dollars a month for her living expenses. She claimed she had anemia and heart problems, needed therapy and health supplements. I never questioned it.

At dawn, I called the demolition team.

"I agree to invest the demolition money into the financial management fund. I’ll come over to sign the papers later."

By the time Sabrina returned home, I was drunk, my face streaked with dried tears.

With guilt in her eyes, she helped me onto the bed, wiping my face with a warm towel.

The scent of cologne on her skin made my stomach churn.

She had been with them all night. In the house, I bought it for her mother.

Sabrina lifted my head and pressed a cup of warm water to my lips. She kissed my hair, whispering, "I’m sorry" over and over again.

For a brief moment, I felt like we were ten years younger. Back when my father had stood firmly against our relationship, when we had no money and rented a tiny basement apartment.

Life was tough then. My father had cut off all my financial support, desperate to keep me from marrying into her family.

We survived on cold steamed buns and instant noodles. But Sabrina loved me back then. She never complained. She ran deliveries with me, even saved up for the cheapest bathroom essentials.

At night, when I was exhausted and drunk, she would cradle me in her arms, crying softly, apologizing for making my life so difficult. She begged me to leave her, to go home, to forget about her.

But I never did.

I held her close now, just like I did back then.

"Sabrina... let them go, okay? We’ll still support them financially, but please—just stay away from them. Can we do that?"

Her body tensed. She stopped moving.

I sobered up instantly.

Slowly, I pushed myself upright, staring at her with a wry smile.

"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why didn’t you come to me when you wanted a child?"

"Sabrina, how could you be so cruel to me?"

Anger surged through me. I swung my fist into the glass cabinet. Shards exploded in all directions, and blood dripped from my knuckles.

For days, I stayed at the furniture factory, throwing myself into work, dealing with the aftermath of the demolition.

That afternoon, after finalizing a merger deal with Mr. Wang, my phone rang.

Sabrina.

I hesitated, then answered indifferently.

"Zach, come home tonight. I need to talk to you."

I knew we had to face this eventually.

"Alright," I said flatly.

But when I opened the door that evening, I froze.

For a second, I thought I had stepped into the wrong house.

The lights were on—every wall lamp, every crystal chandelier. Cartoons played on the TV.

And in the living room, three little boys sat together, laughing, snacking, playing.