Familial Bond Romance Short Stories & Scumbag Marriage Novels

In the most dangerous seventh month of my twin pregnancy, Adrian invited friends over and threw a welcome-home dinner for Vivian, who had just returned to the country. During a round of truth or dare, someone asked him, "If Serena and Vivian both fell into the water and there was only one life jacket, who would you give it to?" I was in the nursery folding baby clothes when I heard his answer come without a moment's hesitation. "Vivi. Serena's tough. She can swim back on her own." My mother chimed in, "Rena grew up in the countryside. She's tough as nails. But Vivi is delicate. She can't handle that kind of scare." Then my brother, the one I had poured everything into putting through school, laughed too. "My sister does whatever Adrian tells her. Forget a life jacket. You could ask her to donate both kidneys to Vivian and she wouldn't dare say a word." The room went quiet around me, with nothing but the steady thud of kicks against my palm. They didn't know that the doctor had issued a critical-condition notice for severe preeclampsia just the day before: At any moment, my placenta could separate, I could hemorrhage into my brain, or all three of us could die. I needed to be admitted immediately to terminate the pregnancy. That morning, I had brought the diagnosis to Adrian and begged him to take me to the hospital. He had barely glanced at it before frowning and saying, "Vivi's coming home today. Don't ruin the mood with some unlikely complication." Ten years of devotion, and all I got in return was "tough as nails." I signed the divorce papers, uploaded the recording to the cloud, and called the private hospital. "Send an ambulance. I need an emergency C-section. Now." Since they all thought my life was worthless, I would take my two children and walk out of their precious world forever.

After his twin brother dies, my husband, Cassian Howell, starts supporting two households, splitting our family's money equally between them. Half goes to our daughter and me, and the other half goes to his late brother's widow, Esther Heaton, and her son, Noah Howell. He says he can't let his nephew grow up without a father figure. When our daughter, Anne Howell, graduates from elementary school, her teacher asks each student to contribute 50 dollars toward graduation photos. Cassian refuses at once, calling it an unnecessary expense. It's the same excuse he used the week before when I asked him for new undergarments. I call him. "I'll go without if I have to, but everyone in her class is getting graduation photos. Anne is the only one who hasn't paid." He sounds annoyed. "Faye, you know I have two households to support. We have to cut costs wherever we can." Before I can answer, he hangs up on me. Moments later, Esther posts a photo in our family group chat: a limited-edition children's camera and a brand-new designer bag. Her caption reads, "Thank you for the gifts, Cassian! I'm so grateful Noah has a father figure in his life, all thanks to you." I stare at the words "father figure" for a long moment before I finally understand. In Cassian's heart, Esther and her son are his real family. Anne and I are just outsiders he can afford to neglect.

My husband was like a broken record. His answer was always the same. "I can't leave." On our wedding anniversary, he said he couldn't leave because he had to take Natalie Rivers out and cheer her up. When I miscarried, he couldn't leave because he had to take Natalie to therapy. Even when my mother died, he still gave me the same answer. "I really can't leave. Natalie's depression has come back, and she can't be alone." Still weak after my miscarriage, I kept vigil alone for three days. That was when I finally understood. To him, neither our baby's life nor my mother's life mattered. My relatives were shocked to see me handling everything alone. "Josh really isn't coming?" After saying my final goodbye to my mother, I stood up and answered calmly. "No. He doesn't have that obligation anymore."

My fiance's childhood friend, Tori Kerr, calls him 999 times, begging him to cancel the wedding. "I see it in the tarot cards. You can't get married this year. Cancel the wedding right now." Mikael Jardine hesitates and says, "Tori's tarot readings are always accurate. Let's just listen to her." My temper flares up immediately. The invitations are already sent, and the venue is booked. How can we just cancel it? Seeing that I'm angry, Mikael ultimately decides not to listen to her. In a fit of rage, Tori blocks him. I thought that was the end of it. But on the wedding day, Tori suddenly storms onto the stage. The first thing she does is shout at my mom and ask her to leave in front of the guests. Tori says, "I read it in the tarot cards last night. Your mom's rising sign clashes with Mikael's. She can't attend the wedding. Besides, your mom's just a cleaning lady. She doesn't deserve to be here!"

In the sixth year of my relationship with Niklas Berg, he spent three hundred days a year in Inari, in northern Finland, doing fieldwork on Sámi culture and traditional crafts. I stayed behind in London, looking after his mother, Helena Berg, who had been bedridden since her stroke. The day I miscarried from sheer exhaustion, I was shaking all over with pain. I called him. Before I could say a word, he cut me off. "Signal's bad up here. The project's at a critical stage. Stop bothering me with every little thing at home." Then he hung up. I had always believed he was simply too consumed by his research to understand the needs of an ordinary relationship. That belief lasted until late one night, when I came across a promotional video for a Nordic traditional crafts exhibition on social media. In the video, Niklas, always so reserved and composed, was leaning down, fastening an heirloom silver brooch at the collar of a radiant young Sámi woman. The silver caught the light against her red-and-blue shawl, and his hands moved with such solemnity it looked like a ritual only the two of them understood. Someone off-camera teased him, asking if he planned to stay in the north forever. He looked at the girl, his voice low and tender. "Aila says this brooch is only given to the person she wants to share her life with. I'd gladly stay here for her." I closed the video. I didn't cry, and I didn't confront him. I simply signed the Helsinki transfer confirmation I should have signed long ago, then left my flat key and engagement ring behind in our home. His beliefs had never left room for me. So I would go and find a world of my own.

When I'm eight months pregnant, my parents, who sold me off when I was a child, beg for my forgiveness and ask me to come home to await the birth of my baby. Suddenly, a gas explosion occurs. Without a moment's hesitation, Mom and Dad shove me aside and rush through the inferno. They are quick to carry my younger sister, Avril Holden, who suffers from leukemia, to safety. Only my husband, Zack Burton, charges into the flames like a madman to rescue me. He even brings in a top-tier medical team for my treatment after I'm rescued from the fire. In the end, I lose my baby, and a falling roof beam leaves me with a broken leg. As I hobble along to catch one last glimpse of my child, I see Zack outside the morgue, pulling Avril into an excited embrace. "Thank God, Avril! We can now harvest Ashley's bone marrow while she's unconscious, and you'll be cured! You'll be back to your old self in no time." I once believed Zack was my warm, reliable refuge, but it turns out it was nothing more than an illusion all along. The marriage I once took such pride in has become a bitter, freezing winter. If that's how it is, then I shall simply let go.

Our daughter was diagnosed with a genetic illness. To save her, my husband founded a charity in her name. To raise the funds, he pushed himself to the brink—working three hundred days straight, surviving on three hours of sleep a night. His relentless drive moved countless people. The media hailed him as "Father of the Year." Everyone congratulated me on having such a devoted partner. Then came the day he rallied the entire nation, securing pledges for millions in donations to fund our daughter's cure. At the gala, with over ten million dollars moments from being transferred, I suddenly hit the pause button. "And now, we'll take a brief intermission for a signing," I announced. The room erupted. They shouted at me, called me selfish, a monster. My husband stared at me, utterly stunned. "Have you lost your mind? Children around the world are waiting on this money to survive! What in God's name are you talking about?" I lifted my gaze to meet his. "A divorce agreement."

The day after I lose my babies, my husband, Colin Fraser, tries to make it up to me with money, like he always does. "What's it going to be this time?" he asks. "Jewelry, company shares, or that plot of land in Easton?" I simply shake my head and slide the document from my nightstand toward him. As casually as he's signed countless checks before, Colin signs it without even looking. When he glances up and sees how calm I am, he lets out a soft laugh. "I thought you'd ask me to stay and keep you company," he says, shaking his head. "After all these years, you're still so materialistic. Money is all you care about." My hand freezes for a moment as I reach for the signed document. Just then, my son, Simon Fraser, breaks the silence with his innocent voice. "Dad, you're only realizing that now? You gave Mom money when she had me. Now that my little siblings are gone, you're giving her money again. Ava is much better. She says love can't be bought with money." Ava's right. Love isn't something you can buy with money. And that is why this document isn't another business contract. It's a divorce agreement.

When I found the hotel booking receipts on my husband's phone, I asked for a divorce. I didn't yell. I didn't cry. My husband, Mark Sterling, thought I was just throwing another childish tantrum. He tossed a black credit card onto the counter. "The PIN is your birthday. Go buy yourself something nice and stop being so paranoid." When I didn't touch it, he sighed and pulled a limited-edition action figure from behind his back. "Look, I even got a gift for Leo. I'll pick him up from preschool tonight. Happy now?" My hands shook as I stared at the toy. Our son died in a car crash two months ago, on the day Mark skipped his parent-teacher conference. He didn't even know that our boy was dead.