When my best friend died, his wife, Mia Lewis, was eight months pregnant.Mia said she didn't want her child growing up without a father.I owed my best friend my life. He saved me, literally pulled me from death's door. So, I stepped up, marrying Mia and raising their son as my own.Mia loved her career, so I quit mine. Traded my job for diapers and school runs. For seven whole years, I cooked, cleaned, folded laundry, and handled the housework. Rain or shine, sickness or health, I was there—every single day.Mia, though? She stayed cold, distant. Her warmth only surfaced in the bedroom—and even then, it was a flicker, never a flame. Just soft sighs and breathy murmurs, like she was playing a role she couldn't wait to finish. Afterward, she would quietly check the condom, as if she couldn't trust me.Then came New Year's Eve.A snap. A tear. A broken condom.Her fury struck like a thunderclap. She locked me out on the balcony and left me standing in the freezing rain, soaked to
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