Pregnant With Her Mother's Murderer, I Divorced My Wife

"We have to be realistic," Abigail said coldly. "If you think fifty thousand is too little, then name your price."

At that instant, something in me snapped—I finally understood.

I lifted my head, my voice edged with bitter irony.

"So, once someone grows old and stops earning money, they're a burden? That makes it acceptable for people to slander them, to put a price tag on their life and buy it off with fifty thousand?"

I looked straight into her eyes.

"Abigail, is that what you really think of your own mother?"

"Shut up."

Like a firecracker set alight, she leapt to her feet and flung the drink in my face.

"Julian, how can you be so ungrateful?" she snapped. "I'm doing this for your sake, yet you twist it into an insult against my mom. What kind of son-in-law are you?"

"You won't sign the agreement? Fine. But don't expect a penny if this goes to court!"

Snatching the document from the table, she stormed out of the restaurant.

I watched her retreating figure until she disappeared outside.

The truth was written at that moment, clear as day.

I almost laughed, but what came out instead was the taste of despair.

Yes, my mother didn't work anymore. But that was only because she and my father had both spent over twenty years in state-owned jobs until the economic downturn forced their early retirement. Even so, their pensions never failed them.

I urged them to travel, to finally enjoy life, but they refused. Instead, they saved every cent to support me and Abigail.

She had no father, and my parents took it upon themselves to help her mother as well. Since marrying into our family, Abigail had never once known hardship. She always did as she pleased, never suffered the slightest grievance.

Even the law firm she now ran with pride had been built on the money my parents scraped together—selling their spacious home to buy a smaller one, just so she could have her start.

All of that, she conveniently forgot.

And in her heart, my mother's life wasn't even worth fifty thousand.

After twelve years of marriage, it hit me with brutal clarity: Abigail had never loved me. Because when you love someone, you love their family too. And when you despise someone... that hatred spreads as well.

When I stepped out of the restaurant, I was startled to find her car still parked nearby.

A boy in a pale blue shirt sat in the passenger seat, carefully applying lipstick on her lips. When he finished, she laughed and leaned in to kiss him.

Through the windshield, I stood frozen, watching them laugh together as if I didn't exist.

When her eyes flicked toward me, her smile vanished, but there wasn't a trace of guilt in her expression. The boy glanced curiously in my direction, and without hesitation, she started the engine and sped away.

The car tore past me, tires splashing through a puddle left by the morning rain. Dirty water sprayed across my body.

Soaked and filthy, I dragged myself home.

My daughter, Jane, came running over, but her small arms froze halfway as she saw my appearance.

"Daddy, what happened? Did you fall?"

My heart clenched painfully.

I crouched down and pulled her into my arms, holding her tiny frame as if she was the only thing keeping me standing.

Hearing her, my mom hurried out of the bathroom, leaving behind the toy she'd been playing with. She came back with a damp towel in hand and pressed it toward me.

"Didn't you go to eat with Abigail? How did you end up like this?"

My chest ached, but I forced a smile. "Tripped on the way back, that's all."

Once I had cleaned myself up, she pulled me aside and lowered her voice.

"About Abigail's mother... what exactly is she planning to do?"

The memory of Abigail's words before she left weighed on me like lead.

I struggled to find an answer.