After five years of trying, I finally got pregnant.

I was about to share the exciting news with my husband when I stumbled upon a social media post from his new assistant, Veronica Walker.

She had uploaded a live photo with the caption, "Don't we look perfect together?"

In the picture, Weston was smiling warmly at the camera, while she donned the custom Victorian-style dress I had specially ordered from England, holding his hand.

Veronica playfully asked him, "What if your wife sees me in this dress?"

He chuckled, "She's past her prime; it'd be wasted on her."

I hesitated for a moment, then commented graciously, "A perfect match."

I muted my phone, turned around, and went back to the hospital to arrange an abortion.

***

"Mrs. Bryant, haven't you always wanted a child? Why the sudden decision to terminate the pregnancy?"

The doctor looked at me in surprise, holding the appointment slip.

Automatically, my hand went to my stomach.

This year marks ten years since my marriage to Weston. We became a couple back in college, started a business together, and eventually got married.

In our friends’ eyes, we were always the ideal couple.

Until I saw that post, I believed we always would be.

He supported my career and never pushed me to have children.

Yet I noticed, every time he passed by a child, he'd get that wistful look.

But he has infertility issues, and to spare his feelings, I pursued countless options.

In the past five years, I’ve lost count of the fertility treatments, or the endless bitter herbal teas I secretly drank when he wasn’t watching.

The hormonal treatments added inches to my waist and drained the color from my face.

But finally, I became pregnant with our child.

I thought this was a shared journey, only to be met with his remark about me being past my prime.

His thoughtless comment cut into my heart like a dull knife, leaving it in tatters over time.

That scoffing laugh crushed my efforts of the past five years.

His betrayal hurt far more than any of the side effects from the hormones.

Noticing my silence, the doctor cautiously said, "Is there something you’re worried about? Maybe talk it over with your family first."

But my husband was busy cozying up with his new assistant.

I shook my head with a forced smile and firmly replied, "The problem lies with my husband. I can't keep this child. Please proceed with terminating the pregnancy."

Seeing my resolve, the doctor said no more and promptly scheduled the procedure.

The embryo hadn't yet formed, and the operation was quick; I felt no physical pain, just a profound emptiness.

After leaving the hospital, I looked at my phone.

Veronica's post had vanished, replaced by a brief note from Weston: "Company’s having an end-of-year party tonight. Don’t wait up."

It wasn't until just past five the next morning that Weston finally came home, smelling of alcohol. He stepped inside to find me sitting in the living room.

I looked up at him, catching his surprise that I was already awake. He instinctively tugged at his shirt collar, though his tie was nowhere to be seen.

A fleeting look of discomfort crossed his face before he busied himself rifling through his pockets, his voice raspy, "Why are you up so early? Just sit tight, let me shower, and I'll fix us some breakfast."

As he headed to the bathroom, he turned back, as if suddenly remembering something, "Veronica didn’t have the right dress, so I lent her the one you ordered. I'll get you a new one."

"She’s just a small-town girl, not very worldly. Go easy on her."

"Alright," I replied absentmindedly while stirring coffee in my mug.

Weston didn’t seem to notice my indifferent demeanor. He lingered in the room for a bit before I heard the shower start in the bathroom.

My phone buzzed with a text notification. It was from my brother, Cody.

"I just landed. Let's meet up to discuss everything face-to-face."

I sighed, knowing that persuading Cody to postpone Amazon's upcoming orders would lead to more questions.

Years ago, I had stepped back from the business to focus on starting a family, following Weston's advice. If I were to divorce him, the company would undoubtedly become a major battleground.

I texted Cody back and went to the bedroom to change.

Just then, a notification appeared on Weston's phone. It was a message from Veronica.

"Has your wife caught on to anything?"

The screen quickly dimmed, the sound of the shower still audible. I hesitated, then picked up the phone.

I recalled how Weston used to joke during our dating days—and even years into our marriage—about why I never snooped through his phone.

I would laugh and pat his cheek, saying I trusted him.

He’d always smile, calling me the love of his life.

Using the password I remembered, I unlocked his phone. Our wedding photo from ten years ago was still the lock screen, now feeling like a cruel irony.

As I scrolled through their past messages, I realized their affair had been going on far longer than I’d imagined.

A chill ran through me, my fingers trembling.

Those open, intimate exchanges made my eyes sting.

All those times Weston claimed he was on business trips, he was actually sneaking around with Veronica.

The night he celebrated her birthday on a Ferris wheel, I lay writhing on the floor with severe gastroenteritis, caused by my strict dieting.

I called Weston first, only to receive an irritated reply.

"You’re not a child. Going to the hospital on your own won’t kill you."

That day, I lay on the floor for a long time until the pain subsided, then went to the hospital alone. Weston never asked about it afterward. I consoled myself, blaming his behavior on work stress.

Thinking back now, I can’t help but feel foolish.

Suppressing my turmoil, I quickly grabbed my phone, snapped photos of the incriminating messages, and carefully put his phone back in its place.

When Weston emerged from the bathroom, I was selecting a Victorian-style dress to wear out.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist from behind, his warm breath tickling my ear.

Instinctively, my fingers dug into my palm, trying to suppress the nausea rising in my chest.

I frowned, trying to break free, my tone sharp and irritable:

"What do you think you're doing? Let go. I have plans and need to head out soon."

"Sweetheart, are you upset with me? I've been swamped with work lately, and I haven't had much time for us. With Thanksgiving coming up, how about we plan a little getaway?" Weston leaned on my back like a lazy cat, his hold unyielding as he rambled on.

"During my last business trip, a client mentioned a spa resort," he continued. "There's even a Ferris wheel there—supposed to be quite the spectacle. How about a little adventure to relive our youthful days?"

His suggestion sent a chill through me, bringing back those recent messages I'd seen, weighing heavily on my heart. My eyes filled with tears, and I stomped on Weston's foot, pushing him away with clenched teeth.

"I'm not going. If you want to go, go by yourself!"

Weston stumbled back, glaring at me with anger. "What's gotten into you? Is it morning madness again? If you're not feeling well, maybe you should take some medicine. Such bad luck."

He turned and picked up his phone, muttering under his breath as he headed toward the bed. "Women going through menopause are such a pain."

I knew this wasn't the right moment for a direct confrontation. But the faint red marks on his shoulder were like mocking, clawing demons, mocking my downfall.

A thread inside me snapped. I grabbed a bottle of lotion from the table and threw it at Weston.

"Is it because I'm aging, because I don't look the same anymore? After ten years together, is this how you justify what you've done? You jerk!"

I lifted my shirt, pointing at the bruises on my abdomen from the fertility treatments, and demanded, "For years, I've sacrificed for you, for us. Do you have any idea what I've endured? How can you do this to me?"

Weston's expression shifted uncomfortably as he rubbed the back of his head. But then he glanced at my no-longer-youthful stomach, and a flicker of disdain crossed his eyes before he sneered.

"You're the one who's betrayed me," he retorted.

"Was it my idea for you to prepare for pregnancy?"

"When we were younger, you insisted on focusing on your career instead of having kids. Did I ever object? You waited too long, and now you blame me?"

"If you weren't so stubborn, so selfish, our child would already be in school by now. You've ignored your duties as a woman, and if I weren't so forgiving, who would want a woman who can't even have kids?"

I stared at Weston in disbelief, but all I found was disdain where there was once love. I laughed bitterly, realizing that in his eyes, I had become insignificant. Five years of sacrifice were nothing but a joke, and a wave of resentment and injustice surged within me. I lunged at him in anger.

"Weston, how dare you treat me like this!"

In the next instant, he shoved me to the floor with force, pointing at me threateningly. "You're out of control! If you keep this up, don't blame me for being harsh!"

Clutching my stomach, I lay on the floor in a heap, unsure if the pain was from the fall or my aching heart. Tears blurred my vision as Weston said something, but my head grew heavier and heavier.

Before I completely lost consciousness, I saw Weston rushing toward me in a panic.