All Chapters of The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins: Chapter 441 - Chapter 450

Mia's POVHugo and I walk a few steps away. Far enough the children can't hear. Close enough I can still see them."I apologize," he begins. "The story was inappropriate.""You were trying to help.""I was trying to practice medicine without consent. There's a difference." He pauses. "But as a physician, I have an obligation to provide accurate medical information. Even when it's uncomfortable.""Hugo—""Please. Let me say this." He looks at me directly. His eyes serious. "Bone marrow donation from a child is not without risk. Anesthesia. Pain. Small chance of complications. I won't minimize that.""I know.""But." He holds up a hand. "The risks are manageable. The pain is temporary. The marrow regenerates completely. Within weeks, the child is physically exactly as they were.""Physically," I repeat. Catching it."Yes. Physically they recover. Emotionally is more complex. Some children process it positively. They helped someon

Mia's POVThe apartment is quiet when we get home.I unlock the door and Gas pushes past me first, her nails clicking on the hardwood in that urgent rhythm that means she's been holding it together all day and now she can finally relax. She heads straight for her water bowl and laps at it like she's been crossing a desert, water splashing onto the mat beneath."Shoes off," I remind the children.Alexander is already kicking his off before the words are fully out of my mouth. They go flying—one hits the wall with a soft thud, the other lands somewhere near the couch—and he looks at me with that expression that's half innocent, half testing to see if I'll call him on it."Alexander.""What?""Pick them up. Put them in the basket."He sighs with his entire body, head dropping back, arms going limp at his sides, that dramatic five-year-old sigh that suggests I've asked him to climb Mount Everest in his socks, but he does it, shuffling over to retrieve both shoes and dropping them in the ba

Mia's POV"Alexander." My voice is sharper now. "What have I told you about watching grown-up shows?""I don't watch grown-up shows!""Then where did you learn about ex-boyfriends and current boyfriends and awkward social dynamics?""I don't know! From existing! From having ears! From Mrs. Rodriguez and also from the elevator—""Alexander!" I'm trying not to smile but also genuinely alarmed. "You're five. You shouldn't know these things.""Well I do know them! And I'm just trying to help you not be awkward!" "Okay!" I stand up. "That's enought. And you..." I point at him. "Less eavesdropping. Less elevator gossip. Less... less learning about adult relationships from our seventy-year-old neighbor.""She's sixty-eight," he mumbles."Alexander.""Okay, okay. Sorry." But he doesn't look sorry. He looks pleased with himself for knowing things, for being observant, for understanding the world in ways that make me both proud and

Mia's POV"These are—" I open the box, and the cardboard edges are soft from years of handling, the corners worn down to a lighter brown. "These are things.""Things?""Moments." I lift the lid slowly, and inside there's chaos—photos stacked unevenly, some face-up, some face-down, ticket stubs from the aquarium, a dried flower from Madison's first school play pressed between two pictures, a tiny hospital bracelet. "Weird moments. Things that happened that I took pictures of because they were—" I search for the word, my fingers hovering over the pile. "Because they were them."I pull out the first photo, and I have to smile before I even hand it over. The edges are slightly sticky from where Alexander once got peanut butter on it."That's Alexander at two and a half." I pass it to Kyle. "He decided he was a dog."The photo shows Alexander on all fours on our old kitchen floor—the one with the yellow linoleum that came with the apartment. He's face-first in Gas's metal bowl, his cheeks

MiaI'm kneeling in the garden now, though I don't remember deciding to kneel. One moment I was standing at the edge looking at the too-long grass, and the next my knees are pressing into the earth.The dirt under my fingernails. I don't notice it happening. I think about how I'll have to scrub them later with the nail brush, the one with the wooden handle that sits by the kitchen sink.My hands know what to do—wrap around the stem as close to the base as possible, feel for the resistance, pull straight up or dig deeper if it won't come. This is muscle memory from years of helping Mom in this garden.The dandelions come up with their long thick taproots, the kind that go down forever, searching for water in the drought. Sometimes they break off halfway and I can feel the snap in my fingers, that small vegetable violence.The crabgrass is harder—those shallow spreading roots that seem to go on forever, each clump revealing more, like pulling on a string and finding it attached to a wh