In the early stages of my pregnancy, I endured unbearable abdominal pain and begged my husband to take just ten minutes to bring me to the hospital. Instead, he accused me of disrupting his date with his little secretary.

Not only did they mock me with cruel words, but they also locked me inside the house. By the time medical staff broke the lock on the door, the child was already gone, covered in blood.

That day, as I lay alone in the hospital bed, I saw a newly posted update from his little secretary. Her words read, “I only tripped in the corridor, but he insisted on staying with me and even bought me a new house. Is this what they call the boss’s reluctant love?”

In the photo, Dwayne Doyle, my husband, was pictured with her, signing for the house. Devastated, I handed him the miscarriage report as a housewarming gift, and only then did he show regret.

——

After drafting the divorce agreement, I stared at the ceiling, clutching the blood-stained hospital gown, now soaked with my tears. That day, I lost my own child. Yet, while I was drowning in sorrow, my husband lay in someone else’s arms and only returned home early the next morning.

When he arrived, his first action wasn’t to comfort me but to grab the medicine bottle on the table and begin examining it.

When he found out I hadn’t taken the anti-fetal medicine on time, his expression darkened instantly, and he scolded me, "Tricia, how many times do I have to tell you? Your health is poor, and you must take anti-fetal medicine every day!"

With that, Dwayne grabbed the medicine bottle and stormed toward me. I raised my head mechanically, still clutching the barely legible abortion report in my hand. My dry eyes, long emptied of tears, held only exhaustion and sorrow.

His frustration grew when I didn’t reach for the medicine bottle he offered. He snatched the abortion slip from my hand, crumpled it like waste paper, and tossed it into the trash can. In a tone laced with irritation, he continued, "Are you upset because I didn’t take you to the hospital?"

"The light in Annie’s corridor was broken, and she’s just a girl who doesn’t know how to fix it. As her boss, isn’t it my responsibility to help her?"

"I know you’re angry with me, but I have work to do. I can’t always be by your side. Besides, you take anti-fetal pills every day—what could possibly go wrong?"

Dwayne spoke self-righteously as if I were the unreasonable one who didn’t understand his priorities. Yet, I had taken anti-fetal medicine on time every day despite my weak health, and still, tragedy struck.

I met his gaze and asked coldly, "Where’s the money in the card?"

Perhaps he hadn’t expected this question, as a flicker of guilt passed through his eyes. Without hesitation, he pulled out a limited-edition secondary card and threw it in my face.

"Isn’t it just a little money? Why are you making a fuss? I’ll return it to you!"

He didn’t even bother fabricating an excuse to deceive me. But I knew the truth—knew that the money hadn’t vanished on its own. Dwayne had used it to buy a house for his little secretary.

What made it even crueler was the irony: Dwayne suffered from asthenozoospermia. For five years, I endured painful ovulation injections to give him this child. In the end, my body was wrecked, and he repaid me with betrayal.

When I was rushed to the hospital, the baby still had a chance to survive. But as I prepared to pay for the miscarriage procedure, I discovered that all the money I had painstakingly saved for the baby was gone.

In a panic, I called Dwayne repeatedly, begging him to come to the hospital. Despite my desperate pleas, he never showed up. My blood soaked the hospital bed as I struggled to breathe, and in the end, the doctors had no choice but to perform an abortion.

One day ago, that card could have saved our child’s life. Now, like our eight-year relationship, it has become nothing more than worthless garbage.

Dwayne, oblivious to my silence, assumed I wouldn’t press the issue any further. He handed me the medicine bottle and said impatiently, “Take the medicine already.”

I didn’t reach for it. Instead, I watched indifferently as the bottle rolled under the sofa, unmoved and unwilling to respond.

Just as Dwayne was about to explode with anger, I spoke in a hoarse voice, "Dwayne, let’s get a divorce."

Dwayne froze, stunned. It seemed he couldn’t believe that I, who had always been devoted to him and the children, would ask for a divorce.

He looked at me impatiently and snapped, "Have you had enough trouble?"

I remained calm and replied, "I’m not making trouble. Let’s get a divorce."

As I spoke, I took out the divorce agreement I had just prepared. Its terms offered a fair and reasonable division for Dwayne.

Only then did he realize I was serious. His temper flared as he glared at me, saying, "Didn’t I just spend some money on you? I’ve already paid it back! I’ve already explained why I didn’t go to the hospital. What are you still fussing about?"

"Annie is just a girl—she couldn’t handle those things on her own. I only went to help! If you insist on holding on to this, then I don’t know what else to do!"

Annie appeared again, looking fragile and innocent, as if I were the one who had caused all the problems.

I repeated firmly, my tone resolute, "Dwayne, I want to divorce you."

Dwayne’s face darkened further, and finally, resorting to his usual tactic, he stormed out of the house.

Whenever Dwayne faces a situation he can’t resolve, he isolates himself—and me—even knowing I’m still pregnant. This time was no different.

Before leaving the house, he fixed me with a cold, piercing stare and warned:

"Don’t even think about doing anything to harm the child. Let me tell you, even if we divorce, the child must be raised by me!"

The sound of the door slamming shut echoed dully.

With my frail body, I forced myself to stand, walked over to the trash can, retrieved the crumpled report sheet, and carefully smoothed it out, as though trying to piece together my shattered heart.

From the moment Dwayne returned to the moment he left, he never once asked about my abdominal pain or the condition of our unborn child. Not a word about the dozens of missed calls I had made.

All he cared about was whether I was taking the medicine as he demanded.

I sat alone in the vast, empty living room, my eyes reddened once more.

Dwayne, you’ve lost the chance to be a father.

And with it, you’ve lost me, too.

The next day, Dwayne called again, urging me to take the anti-fetal medicine on time.

After a sleepless night, I steadied my emotions and replied calmly, "I’ll be waiting for you when you come back—for the divorce."

On the other end of the phone came Dwayne's almost roaring rebuke, "How long are you going to make trouble? I’m exhausted and don’t have time for your nonsense!"

In the end, Dwayne refused to sign the divorce agreement. Instead, he continued his cold, silent aggression and resorted to harsh threats, "You’re a failure who’s stayed home for eight years and never worked. What will you do without me after the child is born? Even if we divorce, the custody of the child will be mine. Think carefully about that!"

Hearing his angry words, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly at myself. To Dwayne, I had always been nothing more than a tool for childbirth, and our child was just another checkpoint in his self-serving life.

Consumed by grief, I gathered every item we had prepared for the baby—from clothes to toys—and burned them one by one.

In the end, only a small portrait of the baby remained.

That portrait brought back memories of our most hopeful year together. Dwayne held my hand, and we painted an image of our imagined child, stroke by stroke. Her delicate features—eyes like mine and lips like his—formed a beautiful, happy vision of the daughter we had dreamed of raising in a loving family of three.

But Dwayne destroyed it all. Even the evidence of our child’s existence had been discarded like trash.

With trembling hands, I clutched the portrait to my chest, trying to feel the presence of the child I had lost. Tears fell uncontrollably as I finally let the flames consume it, turning every last remnant of that dream into ashes.

The firelight flickered brightly, and for a moment, I seemed to see a young child waving at me.

She wore the white princess dress I had just burned for her. She smiled happily as her eyes met mine, babbling softly, as though calling: "Mom..."

I instinctively reached out to touch her, but my palm was scorched by the heat of the fire.

It was then I realized—my child had completely left me. Her brief appearance wasn’t to linger but to help me let go, urging me to leave this sorrow behind and face life again.

"Baby," I murmured, tears streaming, "thank you for coming to me, for giving me the greatest comfort in life. With you by my side, even for this brief journey, I have no regrets."

I steadied myself, packed my emotions, and began preparing my luggage. With quiet resolve, I booked a flight for the end of the month.

That same day, Annie posted another update on her Moments:

"Everyone is welcome to attend my housewarming~"

The accompanying photo showed Dwayne and Annie locked in an embrace, gazing at each other.

Coincidentally, her housewarming was on the same day as my flight.

Over the past eight years, there had been countless quarrels, each one ending with me lowering my head to make peace.

But this time, I didn’t bow my head.

And this time, Dwayne didn’t look back either.

I couldn’t help but recall how uneasy Dwayne had been when he first confessed his physical condition.

I remembered the surprise and excitement on his face when I agreed to be his girlfriend. He once told me I was like a candy, sweetly melting into the bitterness of his heart.

Back then, we changed our lives for the sake of love, determined to have a child of our own. Even after countless setbacks, our bond remained unshaken.

But now, standing at this moment, we had let the chance for happiness slip away.

After leaving home, I cut all ties with Dwayne and stayed in a hotel for three days.

Grief consumed me, weakening my body to the point where I had no choice but to seek medical attention.

It was at the hospital’s obstetrics and gynecology department that I unexpectedly ran into Dwayne and Annie.

Annie had just stepped out of the examination area, clutching a film from her check-up. When she saw me, her innocent eyes blinked, and she smiled sweetly, "What a coincidence, Tricia! I wasn’t feeling well, so Mr. Doyle insisted on bringing me to the hospital for a check-up. I didn’t expect to see you here."

I didn’t have the energy to wonder what had made Annie feel unwell—or why Dwayne had accompanied her to the obstetrics and gynecology department.

"I heard that Tricia had abdominal pain a few days ago. Is she feeling better now?" Annie asked with feigned concern, her tone syrupy sweet, yet only I could detect the mockery hidden within her words.

I pulled out my registration slip and replied calmly, "It's fine now. You don’t need to worry."

Just as I finished, Dwayne appeared behind her, holding a bag of prescribed medicine. When our eyes met, he showed no trace of shame at being caught in such a situation. Instead, he stormed toward me, anger flaring in his voice as he demanded, "Where have you been these past few days?"

I stayed silent, taking a deliberate step back to maintain my distance.

This small action enraged Dwayne further. He snatched the registration slip from my hand, towering over me with a cold, condescending gaze.

"As a pregnant woman, running around recklessly with your baby—do you even care about basic safety?" he barked. "Your prenatal check-up isn’t due yet. Did you come to the hospital today just to follow me?"

Ever since meeting Annie, Dwayne’s mindset had turned stubborn and accusatory. No matter what I said, he would twist it to fit his narrative, refusing to believe anything I explained.

"I'm here to see a doctor," I replied plainly, though I knew my words would fall on deaf ears.

Predictably, my response only strengthened his suspicion. He became even more convinced that I had followed them to the hospital. His sharp, scrutinizing eyes bore into me, searching for confirmation of his baseless accusations.

Despite his abrasive attitude, he still offered to take me home.

I shook my head and refused, walking past him toward the registration kiosk to sign up for my appointment again.