Seven Months Pregnant When I was Diagnosed with Cancer

The moment I stepped inside the mansion, the scent of roses hit me, mixed with something else—something foul, like deception left too long in the sun. I was exhausted, my body barely recovering from the hospital ordeal, but what greeted me stole what little strength I had left.

A hand cracked across my cheek.

"You killed my grandchild!" Sasha, my biological mother, screamed.

I stumbled back, clutching the side of my face in disbelief. Her eyes blazed with fury—eyes that once looked at me with pride when she finally revealed the truth that I was her real daughter.

"You didn’t take care of your body! You were weak—useless!" she went on, her voice laced with disgust. "You shouldn’t have gotten pregnant if you couldn't protect the baby!"

"I tried—" I choked, my throat too dry to speak louder. "I did everything I could."

"Oh, please," Sasha snapped. "Taylor would've never let that happen."

And right on cue, Taylor emerged from behind her like a snake from the grass, donning a mask of concern. "Mother, please... it's not Valerie's fault. She was just... sick. These things happen sometimes," she said in her usual sugary voice, eyes flickering with mock sympathy.

"Don’t defend her," Sasha barked. "You’ve always been the better daughter, Taylor. So perfect. So obedient. Valerie was a mistake—"

My heart dropped.

"—I regret ever telling the family she was my real daughter. Should’ve let her stay where she belonged—with nothing."

Taylor smiled, just enough for me to see it. "Don’t worry, Mother. I can give you a grandchild soon."

Sasha beamed at her like the proud matriarch she believed she was. “Whoever gives me an heir will have everything. Everything.”

She turned her gaze back to me with ice in her stare. “Tomorrow is the anniversary party. You better behave, Valerie. Don’t embarrass me again.”

As Sasha walked away, Harold entered, the ever-charming devil dressed in loyalty. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “I’ll take care of my wife. She’ll behave. After all… tomorrow is also the merger, isn’t it?”

Sasha gave him a satisfied nod. “Yes. It will be finalized then.”

She left. I was numb.

Later that night, Harold brought me dinner in bed. Chicken soup, just the way I liked it. His voice was soft now, fake-sweet. “I’m sorry for everything, Valerie. About the baby… about how I’ve treated you.”

I didn’t answer. I knew the game. He always did this—fake remorse, temporary kindness—to mask a betrayal.

And right on cue, his phone rang.

“Taylor?” he asked, his face pale.

Then her screeching voice pierced through, even from where I sat. “Harold! I twisted my ankle! I need you! Please!”

Like a trained dog, he dropped everything.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Stay and rest, okay?”

I didn’t answer.

As soon as the door slammed behind him, I got out of bed. I started packing. Quietly, methodically. I folded the few things I cared about. Letters. A photo of me before the marriage. The scarf my real father gave me.

Then, I pulled out a box.

Inside were memories: old love notes from Harold, tickets to a movie we once laughed through, dried flowers from our fake anniversaries. Lies, all of it.

I dragged it outside to the small pit in the garden.

One by one, I tossed them into the fire.

And as the flames crackled, I remembered the first time I saw him—my eighteenth birthday. The moment our families arranged our marriage, and he took my hand in the dance. I was young. Stupid. Desperate to be loved.

He was polite. Attentive. And I fell fast.

Taylor had smiled and told me it was fine. "You're the real daughter, after all," she said, her voice soft. "You deserve him."

A lie.

I stared at the fire, tears in my eyes—not for Harold, not even for the baby, but for the girl I used to be. So hopeful. So naïve.

And then—I was shoved.

The fire singed my arm as I screamed, staggering back from the sudden sear of pain.

“Oops!” Taylor cried from behind me, her voice sharp and far too cheerful for someone who had just pushed another person into a fire. “I didn’t mean to! I just wanted to help you! You were too close!”

The skin on my arm throbbed—angry, red, and blistering. But what burned more was the cold satisfaction behind her voice, the glint in her eyes.

“I swear, I was just trying to pull her back,” she continued, voice rising in mock panic. “She nearly fell in!”

Harold came rushing out of the house, his phone still in his hand, his face contorting into frustration. “What the hell is going on out here?!”

“She’s still mad at me,” Taylor said quickly, stepping between him and me like some tragic victim. “I was trying to calm her down. She was throwing things into the fire, and I told her to be careful, but she just kept yelling and then pushed the box so close—I tried to stop her, but she pulled away, and now look!”

Harold's gaze locked on me, sharp and judgmental. “Didn’t we talk about this already, Valerie? Why are you acting like this again? Are you trying to cause a scene before tomorrow?!”

I opened my mouth, my throat tight. I wanted to scream, She’s the one who pushed me! But I didn’t.

I stared at him—at the man I once loved, the man who once swore to protect me from everything. And all I could whisper was, “You truly disappoint me.”