After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Dying Daughter

While recovering from childbirth, my husband, Damien, was brought home drunk from a bar by some friends, with a woman at his side. He vomited everywhere, and I silently stayed by his side all night. When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he said was, "She's pregnant. Let's get divorced."

I didn't cry or make a scene, just calmly nodded. In my past life, I took my wrapped-up baby out into the street and caused a commotion. Soon, the woman was known as a homewrecker across our small town, and in her despair, she jumped into a river. Damien was fired for misconduct, but he never blamed me. On our daughter's first birthday, he set fire to the yard, killing me, our child, and my parents. In those final moments, I saw his twisted smile as he said, "Go down and keep my Gwendolyn company." Then, I opened my eyes again, back to the moment he told me about the divorce.

"Gwendolyn is different from you. Her family would kill her for being pregnant out of wedlock, and you can't just watch her die." Seeing the bloodshot eyes from his hangover, my heart clenched. As I turned to look, Gwendolyn sighed softly and draped her hand naturally over Damien's waist.

All the memories came rushing back like a flood. The searing pain of the fire still seemed to strike every nerve. I shivered, realizing with disbelief that I had been reborn. Seeing me unresponsive, Damien frowned, "I promise, once the baby is born and registered, we'll remarry."

I dug my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay calm. This time, I didn’t cry or make a scene, just nodded and said, "Alright, then let's divorce. You pack your things and move out."

But then he said, "Gwendolyn is pregnant, and she can't handle moving around too much. I've arranged for her things to be moved here this afternoon."

This house was provided to me by the local council. Initially, I was pregnant without being married, and my mom slapped me over ten times, leaving my lip bleeding, but Damien never agreed to marry me. I ended up moving into his house, and his mother finally consented to our marriage.

We lived in a tiny five-square-meter room hastily built in the yard. In the freezing winter, I cooked meals and served his family while heavily pregnant. He never expressed concern, only filled my head with dreams of an unattainable future to keep me content.

Eventually, my father took pity on me and agreed to retire early, securing a job for me at the council, allowing me to be given this house with a garden before I gave birth. Now, after his betrayal and the divorce, he wanted to bring his mistress into my house.

I never imagined he would be so shameless. The pain of burnt skin from my previous life was still vivid; I couldn't bear to relive it. Without arguing, I turned and left. Last night, when those so-called artistic friends carried him home, I wanted them to put him in the guest room. But Jalen wouldn’t listen and placed them both on the master bed. "How can you make your husband sleep in the guest room? What kind of wife are you?"

Resigned, I took my daughter to the guest room. It seems we won’t be going back now. After gathering a few essentials, I picked up my child and stepped out of the yard, heading straight to the phone booth outside the department store.

I dialed the number from the slip of paper. Someone picked up quickly.

"If you don’t mind me bringing a child, come and get us."