One Week Postpartum, Betrayed by My Husband

A week after I gave birth via C-section, Mark Whitman invited his friends over to celebrate the birth of our son.

The crowd was boisterous—more than a dozen people. Not one of them bothered to remove their dirty shoes. The wooden floor was soon covered in muddy footprints.

Mark came into the room and, without a hint of concern, ordered me out of bed. "Everyone's waiting outside. Don't just hide here and rest—you're embarrassing me in front of our guests."

I had no choice but to push through the pain, forcing my body to prepare a huge meal for the large crowd, all on my own.

When I carried the final bowl of steaming soup to the table, Lily Hoyte—whether intentionally or not—jabbed her hand against the wound on my abdomen.

My hand trembled from the sudden pain, and the bowl slipped slightly, spilling the hot soup onto Lily's shoes.

Mark's face darkened instantly. "What the heck did you do, Cammy? Lily rushed here right after her plane landed from overseas to see our son, and this is how you treat her?"

The crowd quickly chimed in.

"Come on, Cammy, no need to be so petty."

"Mark and Lily grew up together. If there was really something between them, do you think you'd even be here now?"

"Do you even know how much those shoes cost? They're limited edition—easily over ten thousand dollars. And you just ruined them."

Lily stood up awkwardly, her eyes misting with tears. "If Cammy doesn't like me," she said softly, "then I'll leave. I don't want to be a bother."

But Mark grabbed her hand in an exaggerated display of protection, his voice harsh as he turned to me. "Wipe Lily's shoes clean. Right now."

His partiality for Lily made something sharp twist in my chest. My lips quivered as I fought back tears. "The wound on my stomach hasn't healed yet. I can't bend over."

At that, his expression grew colder. "Don't use childbirth as an excuse. If you can't bend over, then kneel and wipe them. And if you won't, get out of my house!"

I turned around without a word and walked out the door, shutting all the shouting and chaos firmly behind me.

Pulling out my phone, I sent a message to my lawyer friend: [Stacy, I want a divorce.]

Stacy's reply came quickly: [What? Why? You just had a baby.]

Cammy: [He doesn't deserve to be my baby's father.]

It was already late autumn, and the wind howled as it whipped against my thin frame. Pain rippled through my abdomen where the incision was still raw, and the tearing pain below flared with every step.

The streets were desolate, with no sign of life except me standing under a flickering streetlamp in nothing but my flimsy pajamas.

Four hours passed since I left the house, and not a single call from Mark.

I thought about finding a cheap motel to stay the night, but then my thoughts drifted to my baby—he was still so small, and he needed to be fed every two hours.

With a sigh, I turned around and retraced my steps, my slippers dragging on the pavement as I made my way back.

When I entered the house, his friends had already left. The living room was in disarray—the table piled high with leftover dishes and wine glasses, the floor littered with muddy footprints and discarded fruit peels.

Mark lounged on the couch, shirt open, exuding smug indifference. At the sight of me, his eyebrows lifted in triumph, as if to say, See? I knew you'd come crawling back.

He got up and picked up a plate from the table, handing it to me.

"Can't believe a grownup like you would throw a tantrum over a young girl," he said, his tone full of reproach.

"You dirtied her expensive shoes, and she didn't even make a fuss. You should learn from her—be more generous. Running out in the cold like that, punishing yourself. Now you realize how foolish you were, don't you?

"Eat this. Lily saved it for you. She's such a kind girl. Stop making things difficult for her."

His words—young girl, kind girl—kept coming, one after another, as if he didn't notice how ridiculous they sounded.

I couldn't help but laugh silently. He'd probably forgotten that Lily was a year older than him.

I looked down at the plate in my hands. It held a cold serving of mushy oatmeal, wilted, browned greens, and a chicken drumstick with half the skin gnawed off.

So this was what she'd specially saved for me.

Without a word, I placed the plate back on the table.

His discontent flared immediately.