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

"She... she says she's going to sue," I choked out.

"Let her," my mother replied. "If that's what she chooses, then fine—she must give justice to what happened to her mother."

Sighing, she rummaged in her pocket, and pressed a bank card into my hand.

"This is a little money your father and I saved over the years. You'll need it—the lawyers, the fees... Take it, and if things get tight, tell your parents."

Forcing a smile, she added, "Son, I should go home. Your father's waiting for me to cook."

She patted my hand and walked toward the door.

I followed her to the gate and watched the front door slam shut behind her, locking me inside. The bank card burned in my palm like a live coal, setting every nerve on edge.

I wanted a divorce.

But I couldn't say that aloud. I couldn't tell my parents that after all their years of sacrifice, in Abigail's eyes, their devotion was nothing and worthless.

And among the things she thought worthless, I was included.

That night Abigail didn't come home. I didn't sleep in the master bedroom either.

I curled up on my daughter’s small bed, holding her tightly in my arms, and lay awake through the long night.

At dawn, I got up to make breakfast. Abigail opened the door and scanned the room; when she didn't see the child, she sat down.

Tapping her fingers on the table, she said, "We need to talk."

I took the seat opposite her, my eyes catching the dull red mark at the base of her neck. She cleared her throat and, looking oddly uneasy, reached into her bag and pushed two documents across the table.

It was a divorce agreement, and the private settlement she'd handed me yesterday.

"You already saw everything yesterday," she said. "So I won't lie. His name is Dylan. I've known him for some time."

"My plan wasn't to get a divorce," she went on, softer now. "But I'm pregnant with his child, and I'm not having an abortion."

Dylan?

My hand paused over the divorce agreement. That name—Dylan—was the same one I'd heard at the police station two days ago. Remembering what happened yesterday, I suddenly understood—though it all still felt ridiculously absurd.

Abigail was pregnant with the man who caused her mother's death?

When I didn't answer, her voice became even gentler. "Julian, he's only twenty-two. For the sake of the years we shared, can you let him go?"

"If you let him go and sign the settlement, I'll give you my house and my car." She smiled, as if making a bargain. "And we've upped the settlement to one hundred thousand."

It was almost laughable. After sixteen years together, the first time she showed me tenderness was to save the life of the man who ran over her own mother.

I picked up the divorce agreement, flipped through it page by page, then handed it back to her.

She thought I’d agreed—her face lit up with relief. Quickly, she dug a pen out of her bag and pressed it into my hand.

I signed, then pushed the two copies back across the table.

“I agree with divorce. But as for a private settlement—I don’t have the right to sign that.”

It was the truth.

But in Abigail’s ears, it sounded like I was deliberately making things difficult.

Her face darkened. She leaned back in her chair, chest rising and falling sharply, then suddenly hurled the pen at me.

“Julian, I only brought up our past out of consideration. Don’t think I’m begging you. That’s your mother we’re talking about. If you don’t have the right, then who does? In the end, you just don’t want to let Dylan go. You’re malicious—and so is your entire family.”

“What did you just say?”

My fists clenched, anger rushing through me like fire.

She could insult me all she wanted, but why should I let her trample my family again and again?