You Were My Greatest Regret, Husband

I took a taxi straight to the hospital. My pregnancy was already advanced, so I had no choice but to undergo induced labor.

The anesthesia was injected into my veins, yet I could still feel the cold metal forceps twisting and tugging inside my body.

Staring blankly at the harsh operating light above me, I tried to shut off my emotions—tried to go numb.

Still, tears continued to stream down my cheeks.

I couldn’t stop remembering how thrilled I had been when I first found out I was pregnant.

Back then, I truly believed I could leave the pain behind and start over.

I had prayed endlessly for Grace to come back to me in another life, so I could give her twice as much love, protect her twice as fiercely.

Ethan cried, too. He’d knelt beside me with trembling hands and whispered,

“Everything will be okay… We’ll be okay, Samantha. We’ve been through so much—there has to be light at the end.”

We even visited my mother’s grave together. He’d choked up, clinging to my hand as he vowed,

“I swear on my life—I won’t let Samantha get hurt again. This time, I’ll protect her and the baby with everything I’ve got.”

Back then, I believed him completely. I thought he was my second chance, my anchor in the storm.

After the procedure, I lay alone in a hospital bed all night, wrapped in silence and cold sheets.

By noon the next day, Ethan finally messaged me with a flimsy excuse.

“Sorry, baby. I drank too much at a company dinner and passed out at my parents’ place. I’ll come home soon.”

I didn’t respond. Seconds later, another message came in.

“Wife, you didn’t even call to check on me? Aren’t you worried? Are you still upset?”

Then another:

“I brought your favorite chestnut porridge. I queued for a long time to buy it. Can you forgive me now?”

My reply came without thinking:

“But I’m allergic to chestnuts.”

There was a long pause. Then came a flood of apologies.

My heart felt like it was shattering.

How could he forget?

The first time I had an allergic reaction, he stayed by my hospital bedside all night.

We were still young then. He had written down all my allergens in a notebook and memorized them by heart.

But now, he had brought me the one thing I couldn’t eat.

Because someone else loves chestnuts.

Last night, I saw a post on Ruth’s social media. The background was unmistakable—it was my biological father’s house.

In the photo, a man was playing with her son, laughing beside my father like part of the family.

She tried to blur the man’s face, but she couldn’t hide the distinctive watch on his wrist.

I recognized it instantly. It belonged to Ethan.

I also noticed the table was filled with roasted chestnuts.

The pain was so sharp that even my tears dried up.

How ironic that the people I loved the most had quietly turned against me.

I checked myself out of the hospital and left alone, ignoring the barrage of missed calls on my phone.

When I stepped through the front door, Ethan rushed forward and wrapped me in his arms, holding me tightly without a word.

His voice was hoarse, trembling with fake emotion:

“I was going crazy worrying about you. I thought something terrible happened. Samantha, don’t ever do that again. Please, you promised me you'd live well.”

After what felt like hours, he finally let go—just as Ruth appeared from the living room sofa.

The moment our eyes met, she stood up and walked toward me, speaking with gentle accusation:

“Brother-in-law was so worried about you. Please, sister, don’t be so impulsive next time, okay?

I know you’re going through psychological issues, but that doesn’t give you the right to torment the people who care about you.

Brother-in-law is so kind to you. You really need to cherish him.”

Looking at her fake concern and sanctimonious expression, I felt a wave of nausea.

“If you want him, you can have him.”

The moment the words left my mouth, her eyes welled with tears on cue.

“I’m only thinking about what’s best for you. If you don’t appreciate it, then I’ll just leave.”

At that moment, Ethan, who should have looked torn or sorrowful, suddenly dropped the act and turned serious—too serious.