Our Child Died for Her Lover’s Son

Rachel’s face twisted into a mocking smile. Her words were even more vicious than her expression—each one like a blade.

Looking at her, the hatred in my chest surged like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me. I wanted to strangle her. I wanted her to pay for our daughter’s life—with blood.

But just then, my daughter’s soft, tender voice echoed in my ears, fragile and warm, like a fading dream.

"Dad, is Mom busy again today? I haven’t seen her in so long…"

"Dad, I’ll tell you a secret… Mom is the prettiest mommy in all of kindergarten!"

"Dad, I miss Mom so much."

Then came that final memory—her voice weak and trembling as I carried her into the taxi, her little arms wrapped tightly around my neck.

“Dad, don’t be mad at Mom, okay? It doesn’t hurt… really… it doesn’t hurt at all…”

My throat tightened. I forced down the rage, turned away from Rachel, and quietly walked to the bed, sitting down without sparing her another glance.

But she wasn’t done. Anger flared in her eyes as she stomped forward, grabbed my wrist, and threw me onto the bed. She straddled me, gripping my wrists above my head.

“What’s with the act, huh? Didn’t you beg my parents to drag me back? What, now you’re sulking because I came?”

She leaned down, trying to kiss me. I turned my head, but she pressed harder. Left with no choice, I bit her lip—hard.

She gasped in pain and recoiled, sitting up as fury twisted her face.

“Ethan, have you lost your mind?! What the hell are you playing at now?”

She laughed coldly and launched into her tirade.

“You really think I don’t see through you? You used that little appendicitis scare to force me to the hospital. Then, when it didn’t work, you cried to my parents to pressure me to come back. And now, you're pulling this distant, cold act? What—trying to win sympathy?”

“You left her—your daughter—alone in the hospital after surgery. She’s three! What kind of father does that? And now you’re playing victim? She probably knew what kind of father you were before she died—"

“I said…” I cut her off, my voice icy and low, “…the child is dead.”

She froze.

For a second, something flickered in her eyes. But then her lips curled into a sneer.

“You really are something, Ethan. You’ll say anything to gain pity, won’t you?”

With that, she stood and walked toward the door. Just before stepping out, she turned and spoke without emotion.

“You rejected me yourself. Don’t run crying to my parents again about how badly I treat you. If you do, I’ll only find you more pathetic.”

The door shut behind her.

Silence returned to the room like a heavy fog.

I wiped my lips over and over again, as if scrubbing could erase the memory of her touch—the scent of her.

We had once been in love.

I still remember her 18th birthday. She wore a soft blue princess dress, her cheeks flushed as she stood in front of me.

“Ethan,” she said nervously, “can I like you?”

Her eyes couldn’t meet mine. They were shy and full of light.

My heart melted. I nodded before I even realized I had.

From then on, we were inseparable—four years of youth shared side by side. I cherished her like a treasure, and she gave me her heart in return.

Or so I thought.

Then, four years later, her father sat us down.

“You two have been together long enough,” he said, beaming. “You’re of age now. It’s time. We’ll pick a good day for the wedding.”

Everything changed after that.

Rachel turned cold. Her affection vanished overnight, replaced by impatience, then disgust. I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. And she never offered an explanation.

A year into the marriage, she became pregnant.

But after our daughter was born, she drifted further away—staying out late, refusing to come home. She didn’t even bother hiding it anymore when she took her so-called first love, Luke, out in public, arm-in-arm, letting the whole world see how little she cared.