"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."