My Wife’s Deception Cost Our Son His Life

In the fifteenth year of our marriage, Tiffany was finally pregnant. But the joy I had expected never came; she merely offered a hollow smile as if the news barely touched her.

And then, I saw it.

A photo of Peter pressing a kiss to her swollen belly, his face glowing with joy. Tiffany’s expression, one of pure, unfiltered happiness, said everything I needed to know. She had long since given birth to someone else’s child.

And my Levi? In her eyes, he had been nothing more than an unfortunate inconvenience, something she had been desperate to cut away.

No wonder that every year on Levi’s birthday, she always had some excuse, urgent business trips or overseas meetings.

Because Levi’s birthday was only three days apart from their child’s, she had to leave early, making sure everything was perfect for them, terrified that her precious family would feel neglected.

I shut the webpage, my heart numb, my mind made up.

I called my childhood friend overseas.

“I’ll take the job as a jewelry appraiser at your company. I’ll see you in three days.”

And before hanging up, I asked him for a favor.

After finishing everything, I stepped into Levi’s room. The layout remained untouched, frozen in time. His pillow still carried that faint, milky scent unique to children. But Levi… Levi would never return.

Under his pillow, I found a small wishing bottle. Inside was a folded slip of paper, his birthday wish, written with the help of his teacher.

"The teacher said a man must be brave, so this year, I finally mustered the courage to tell Mommy I wanted a birthday present. But before I could even finish, Mommy got angry and walked away."

"Actually, all I wanted was for Mommy to spend an hour with me on my birthday. Even just thirty minutes would make me so, so happy."

A sharp ache tore through my chest. Tears blurred my vision, falling uncontrollably.

‘Tiffany, is this what you call ambition?!’

That night, I printed out the divorce papers. Then, clutching Levi’s blanket, I buried my face in it, inhaling the last traces of his scent, his warmth and cried until dawn.

The next day, despite her usual obsession with cleanliness, Tiffany did something unthinkable. She sat beside me, silently tending to my wounds, carefully changing the bandages, her touch uncharacteristically gentle as she wrapped them in fresh gauze.

The housekeeper stood beside us, her eyes brimming with envy, but my heart had long turned to ash.

She took one look at my swollen, bloodshot eyes and sighed, sorrow weighing heavy in her gaze.

"Joseph, I know you miss Levi. I miss him even more, but you need to take care of yourself. I’ve already lost the child I love most. I can’t lose you too. Why don’t you rest at home today? Let me handle Levi’s funeral."

Let you? Let you, the murderer who killed your own son, take care of it?

I swallowed the bitter mockery pressing against my tongue and replied coolly, "No need. I have to send Levi off myself."

At the funeral, from a distance, I spotted Peter and a teenage boy standing beside my mother-in-law. They flanked her on either side, their voices light, their smiles easy. She laughed, her joy untouched by grief, as if she were at a casual gathering, not at my son’s funeral.

On such a solemn occasion, where mourning cloaked everyone in black, Peter and that boy arrived in striking red suits, standing out like a mockery of grief.

And yet, my mother-in-law didn’t bat an eye. She clung to them, her gaze brimming with affection as if they were the only family she recognized.

Worried they might be too warm, she even had the servants hold umbrellas over them, treating them like treasured kin as if they were her true son-in-law and grandson.

Peter’s gaze flicked to me, his lips curving into a smirk. With a voice dripping with mockery, he turned to her.

“Auntie, I’m not hot. Joseph is here now and the sun is scorching. Why not give him the umbrella instead? Unlike me, he lost his child and got himself injured. He needs all the care he can get.”

At his words, my mother-in-law twisted toward me, her face curling in open disgust.

"It’s just a useless brat who died; what’s the big deal? And what’s with that pitiful look? Who are you performing for? Stop disgracing the family with this pathetic act."

She huffed, her gaze flicking back to Peter and the boy with unmistakable fondness.

"Even Peter and Gabriel are more considerate than you. They flew in straight from abroad, worrying I’d be too tired. They even brought me an expensive diamond bracelet. They're a thousand times better than you, a worthless bastard."

She had always looked down on me, convinced I wasn’t good enough for Tiffany. And when a decade passed without a child, she never let me forget it, mocking me, calling me useless.