“Jennifer, I’m truly sorry if my actions have caused you pain, but I didn’t know Daniel was still living with you. He told me your relationship was over long ago and that you were getting a divorce soon. He said you didn’t have any feelings for him anymore.”

Reading the first text, I just scoffed at the classic lies of a cheating husband and the unbelievably foolish excuses of the other woman.

The second text was a lament about her difficult situation.

“I just got divorced and things were so hard. The baby in my belly was abandoned by its father and I was kicked out onto the street. Then Daniel appeared and helped me and my baby. I’m just a vulnerable woman who needed someone to lean on. I thought of that money as a loan from him. I plan to pay it back when I get on my feet. I really didn’t want to ruin your family.”

The third text was an appeal to pity.

“Jennifer, you’re pregnant, too, so I hope you can understand my situation as a soon-to-be mother. Please don’t make this a big deal. What did the baby in my womb do wrong? Once the baby is born, I’ll quietly step away and give Daniel back to you.”

After reading all three messages, I found the woman pathetic. She had the courage to commit the act, but not to take responsibility.

She was using her unborn child as a shield to hide her greed, blaming everything on my husband’s lies, and conveniently ignoring her own calculated actions and selfishness.

Instead of getting angry, calling her to scream, or sending a long rebuttal, I chose complete silence, and I deleted all three messages from my phone.

A pregnant woman didn’t need to trouble her mind with such garbage. Her apology couldn’t change reality, and whether she stepped away or gave my husband back was no longer my concern.

I never take back things that other people have used.

My sole focus now was on building a stable future for the daughter who would soon be born. All my efforts were now directed only toward myself and the child growing inside me every day.

I was nine months pregnant with my due date just a week away. My body felt like it had reached its limit.

My legs were swollen, and even walking was a struggle. I had taken maternity leave from work and was resting at home.

I prepared everything for the baby’s arrival by myself. Daniel, using the excuse of a busy year-end at work and the need to care for his mistress who was also nearing her due date, was barely home.

I ordered diapers online, washed baby clothes, and neatly folded them into a pink basket. As I sat on the sofa folding the tiny palm-sized outfits, I suddenly remembered the day we first met.

Four years ago, I met Daniel through a mutual friend. At our first meeting in a small coffee shop, he wore a crisp white shirt and spoke in a calm, gentle manner.

I remember his hands were particularly clean and neat. Throughout our conversation, he was incredibly considerate.

He pulled out my chair, poured my water, and asked kindly about my work and hobbies. He once told me, “Taking care of people is just a habit for me. When I see the people I love happy, it puts my mind at ease.”

I, who had always dreamed of a normal family, fell head over heels for that false warmth and sense of security. And I nodded when he proposed.

On our wedding day, the look in his eyes as he watched me at the altar seemed filled with sincerity. I thought I had found the most solid pillar of support in my life.

But time was the cruelest solvent. It stripped away the glamorous exterior and laid bare a person’s selfish nature.

The hands that once poured my water were now using our family’s money to support another woman. And the eyes that once looked at me with love were now filled with cold calculation.

A sharp kick in my side brought me back to the present. My daughter was reacting to the outside world.

I placed a hand on my belly, gently stroking it to soothe her. As the momentary pain passed, a steely resolve settled in my heart.

Marrying him was a mistake, but this child was a precious gift that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I made a promise to myself.

No matter what difficulties lay ahead, even if I lost money, I would protect this child to the very end. From this moment on, I was no longer Daniel’s submissive wife.

I was a strong mother, ready to reclaim a peaceful life for my child.

The contraction started early on a Wednesday morning during my 39th week of pregnancy. My abdomen tightened like a rock, and waves of pain radiated from my back to my lower belly.

I gritted my teeth, reached out to turn on the bedside lamp, and woke Daniel. He stumbled out of bed, half asleep, grabbed the pink hospital bag I had prepared, and clumsily helped me into a taxi to the hospital.

The labor and delivery waiting area was filled with the groans of other expectant mothers. I gripped the cold metal railing of the hospital bed, my clothes soaked with sweat.

Daniel stood by my side, holding my hand and whispering, “You can do this, honey. I’m right here with you.”

Looking at his worried face, I thought that the me of three months ago might have shed tears of gratitude, but the me of today could only manage a bitter scoff.

He was such a good actor. It was no wonder both Chloe and I had fallen for him so easily.

At 7:00 a.m., our daughter’s first cry echoed through the delivery room. The doctor wrapped the tiny red baby in a white swaddle and placed her on my chest.

Feeling the warmth of that small life, my heart felt like it was melting, and all my exhaustion seemed to vanish. I named her Lily.

It was a simple name, but it held my hope for her life to be peaceful. It was also a vow: no matter what storms came our way, this mother would bear it all to give her child a tranquil life.

A nurse pushed a wheelchair to take me and the baby out, and Daniel rushed over. His eyes welled with tears as he took my hand, kissed my forehead, and repeatedly thanked me.

A few families in the neighboring rooms whispered with envy. They praised me for being blessed with a husband who doted on his wife and child.

I simply responded with a smile. Lying in the wheelchair, I watched him perform the final scene of the exemplary father.

He played his part brilliantly, but I, his sole audience member, already knew the ending to the next act.

Two days later, I was discharged. My mother, who lived in a small town upstate, took a bus down to help me with my postpartum recovery.

Seeing her arrive with bags full of homemade chicken pot roast and vegetables from her own garden brought tears to my eyes.

My mother bustled around, cleaning the room, cooking, and washing her granddaughter’s diapers. Holding Lily, she told me, “A new mother’s body is weak, so you need to take good care of yourself. Seeing how Daniel looks after you and the baby puts my mind at ease. Your dad can manage the house, so I can stay here for a few months. Don’t worry about anything. Just focus on recovering.”

At night, my mother took care of Lily, allowing me to get some much-needed sleep. Daniel was on his best behavior, too.

He would come home from work, roll up his sleeves, and help my mother in the kitchen. Many times, watching my elderly mother work so hard for me late into the night, I wanted to lean on his shoulder and sob.