After My Miscarriage, My Husband Got Another Woman Pregnant

Eight months pregnant, Ian Shaw insisted that I accompany him back to his hometown for the New Year.

Worried about the baby, I refused, but he flew into a rage and smashed the tea set we had just bought.

On the day of departure, we stopped at a gas station, where he coincidentally ran into his first love, who was waiting for a bus home.

In a soft, sweet voice, Paula Keith said, "Ian, take me home first. Sherrie won’t mind, right?"

Ian replied, "She’s been doing nothing but eating and sleeping her entire pregnancy. It’s better for the baby if she stays in the car."

Paula didn’t hesitate, opening the passenger door and sliding into the front seat.

Halfway through the drive, sharp pain gripped my stomach, and I pleaded with him to take me to the hospital.

With a cold expression, he shoved me out of the car. "Stop using the baby as an excuse. If you don’t want to go back, then don’t. Just get out!"

He slammed the accelerator and drove away without looking back.

I collapsed in the freezing wind, consumed by the unbearable pain.

——

When I regained consciousness, muffled voices floated above me.

"If she’d gotten here 20 minutes earlier, the baby might have survived."

"Running around so recklessly while heavily pregnant... The poor child suffocated. It’s all the mother’s fault!"

Tears slipped silently from the corners of my eyes as I lay there helplessly. My baby was gone.

The sound of the monitor’s alarm jolted me before darkness swallowed me whole.

When I opened my eyes again, the ward was silent.

The night outside the window was pitch-black, like ink spilled across the sky.

I stared blankly at the pale ceiling, my entire body numb and cold.

Suddenly, my phone screen lit up.

I glanced at it and mechanically answered the call.

Ian’s irritated voice broke the silence. "Sherrie, it’s been two days! You won’t answer my calls or reply to my messages. How long are you planning to act like this?"

I closed my eyes, my voice faint and lifeless. "Ian, I’m in the hospital."

"Enough! Stop pretending! You just didn’t want to go back to my family’s countryside for the New Year, didn’t you?"

His tone shot up, sharp and accusatory, like a cornered animal.

I didn’t argue as I usually would. Instead, I replied flatly, "Are you done? If there’s nothing else, I’ll hang up now."

"You’re just going to hang up because I called you out? If you’ve got any sense left, take the bus back tomorrow, and I’ll forgive you!"

I ended the call without another word.

He called seven or eight more times, but I muted my phone and watched the screen darken each time.

A notification dinged—his Instagram message.

"Fine! If you want to act up, go ahead! Spend the New Year alone! Don’t even think about asking me to pick you up!"

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

Before we got married, he’d rush back from his hometown just to watch a movie with me.

When I was afraid of the dark, he’d leave all the lights on for me when I was alone at home.

After we married, he always made sure to come home early.

But now, all of that seemed like a distant memory, long forgotten.

Just then, a group message notification popped up.

[Paula Keith]: "Dear uncles and aunts, I’ll be turning one on February 8th! Mommy is throwing a party at home to celebrate. You all have to come! Here’s some candy for everyone."

The profile picture was a pouting selfie of Paula.

[Ian Shaw]: "Everyone, let’s take this chance to get together like old times."

I froze. When did Ian change the group name?

When we first got together, he had eagerly added me to his high school group and introduced me to all his old classmates.

I never spoke in the chat, so he probably forgot I was even part of it.

Messages poured in: in—congratulations, blessings, cheerful words.

Each one was stung like a knife.

[Paula Keith]: "Thank you, everyone! My phone’s about to die because there’s a power outage at home. Don’t forget to come on the 8th!"