Ex wife: Revenge Comeback

Chapter 1: Let’s have another baby

On the night I decided to ask my husband for another child, I already knew something between us was dying.

The bedroom was dark except for a thin blade of moonlight slipping through the curtains. Ethan's breathing was warm against my skin, but I felt colder than I had ever felt beside him.

A month earlier, I had stood alone at the cemetery where my twins were buried—or where I had always believed they were buried.

It had been the anniversary of their deaths. I had waited until the cemetery lights came on, hoping that after five years Ethan might finally come and grieve with me. He never did.

He never came.

His message had arrived shortly before midnight: “I'm busy. I don't have time for this.”

Then he disappeared for an entire month.

I had spent those thirty days doing what I had become frighteningly good at—pretending I didn't care. I stopped myself from calling him. I stopped asking where he was. Most of all, I stopped remembering the man he had once been.

Now he was here.

His arm rested around my waist, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I was holding on to a man who had already left.

“Claire.” Ethan’s low voice broke through my thoughts. “Open your eyes.”

I obeyed.

Moonlight traced the hard line of his cheekbone. He looked exactly as he always had: controlled, handsome, and impossible to read.

For one reckless moment, I remembered the Ethan I had loved.

The man who waited outside every prenatal appointment. The man who placed his palm over my pregnant belly and smiled when one of the babies kicked. The man who once whispered that their children would grow up together and that nothing would ever separate their family.

That I could see Ethan like a memory from another life.

I lifted my trembling hand and touched his brow.

“Ethan,” I whispered, my throat tightening around the words. “Let’s have another baby.”

He went completely still.

His eyes searched my face. Something flickered there—surprise, perhaps even pain—but it vanished before I could name it.

“Are you serious?”

I almost laughed. Instead, I swallowed the tears burning behind my eyes.

I had spent five years waking from nightmares with the names of two children trapped in my throat. Five years blaming myself. Five years believing that if I became healthier, calmer, better, perhaps Ethan and I could build another family and somehow survive what we had lost.

I leaned closer and kissed him.

For one fragile heartbeat, I let myself believe I had found a door back to the past.

Then Ethan pulled away.

The softness in his expression disappeared.

“I,” he said quietly, “when was the last time you really looked at yourself?”

I froze.

In the reflection of his dark eyes, I saw what I had spent years refusing to see: hollow cheeks, sleepless eyes, fragile shoulders, and a body weakened by grief.

Ethan stood and reached for his robe.

“You look like this now,” he said without turning around. “And you're talking about having another baby?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

“Even if you became pregnant,” he continued, “I don't know whether you could be a good mother in your current condition.”

The words struck deeper than a slap.

I had stopped eating properly. Stopped sleeping without medication. Stopped living.

I slid down against the wardrobe and finally cried. Not because Ethan had rejected the idea of another baby. Because somewhere inside me, I had still been waiting for him to choose me.

That night, fever took hold of me. In my dream, two children ran toward me through a field of white flowers.

That night, fever took hold of me. In my dream, two children ran toward me through a field of white flowers.

A little boy with Ethan's eyes. A little girl with my smile. They were older in the dream—five years old, the age they should have been.

"Mom," they called. I dropped to my knees and reached for them.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.” The little girl wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Mom, you have to get better." The boy smiled through his tears.

"We're still waiting to be your children again." I woke with a cry. I was in a hospital.

Mrs. Lewis found me burning with fever and brought me to the hospital.

For a week, I waited for Ethan to walk through the hospital door.

He never did. On the eighth morning, I stopped waiting. I went to the cemetery alone.

Standing before the twins' grave, I finally admitted the truth I had been too frightened to say aloud.

"Mommy can't keep living like this." The wind moved through the trees. I placed my trembling hand over the stone.

"If I can't bring you back, then I'll at least become someone you would be proud of."

When I returned home, I stopped taking sleeping pills.

I followed the doctor's instructions. I began eating again, slowly. I practiced yoga. I forced myself to step outside each morning.

I cleared the children's room, folded away their things and burned the old prenatal records.

Every page hurt. I burned them anyway. Not because I had stopped loving my children.

Because I needed to learn how to carry their memory without destroying myself.

Ethan noticed the change. He did not apologize. He did not suddenly become affectionate.

But one afternoon, he personally drove me to an old specialist and arranged for my recovery.

It was a small gesture, but I treasured it more than I should have.

I mistook concern for love. Over the next two months, I slowly became stronger.

My weight rose. Color returned to my face. The emptiness in my eyes began to fade. Ethan became gentler too.

He remembered my meals. He answered when I called. Sometimes, he even came home early.

I allowed myself to hope. Maybe they were not healed yet.

Three months later, my period was late.

Ethan was away on a business trip, so I went to the hospital alone. I told myself not to hope. Hope had hurt too much before.

When the doctor smiled, I forgot how to breathe.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Carter. You're about seven weeks pregnant. The baby is healthy, and there's already a heartbeat.”

A heartbeat.

I covered my mouth. Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.

For five years, I had dreamed of hearing that sound again. Now it was real. There was a tiny life inside me—a life I hadn’t yet dared to love because I was terrified the universe would take it away too.

I walked out of the examination room clutching the report against my chest.

My first thought was Ethan.

My second was the twins.

I wanted to tell him before anyone else. For one foolish, beautiful moment, I imagined his face softening when he heard the news.

I called him.

“I'm busy,” Ethan answered. “If it's important, tell me when I get back.”

My smile faded.

Then I heard something else.

Ethan's voice came again—only this time, it was not coming through the phone.

“Charlie, Daddy will take you for your injection first.”

I slowly turned.

My husband, who was supposed to be thousands of miles away, sat on a hospital bench with a little boy in his arms.

The child had a fever patch on his forehead.

Then the boy lifted his face.

My fingers tightened around the pregnancy report.