He Murdered His Only Miracle
The photo of the positive pregnancy test on my phone still felt warm with the thrill of a miracle.
I was about to surprise my husband, Blake, when he walked in with a heavily pregnant woman.
She was his protégée, Amber.
"Amber's pregnant," he announced. "And the baby is mine."
A cold dread washed over me, my hand gripping my phone so tightly the screen protector cracked.
"Why?"
He smiled, a tender look I once cherished twisting into a mask of cruelty.
"My love, your 'barren' body can't carry on the Collins bloodline."
"But don't worry. You're the only one I love. The title of Mrs. Collins will always be yours."
I stared at the mistress who had brazenly walked into my home, now standing right behind him.
Suddenly, the whole situation felt grotesquely absurd.
Blake suffered from a severe low sperm count. The irony was suffocating: he was the one who was practically sterile.
To surprise him, I had secretly endured agonizingly painful and expensive rounds of in-vitro fertilization.
And my reward was his betrayal.
"Blake," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Let's get a divorce."