The Mistress Got Pregnant—So He Immediately Divorced His Wife to Marry Her.
But on the Wedding Night, When He Saw the Bride’s Belly, He Turned Pale and Collapsed After Learning a Shocking Secret…
I signed the divorce papers quickly, as if it meant nothing.
Just a few days later, I moved in with Nhung for good. I abandoned Thanh—the woman I had called my wife for years—without offering any explanation to our families or neighbors.
Nhung was completely different.
Always cheerful.
Always rubbing her belly.
Always talking about our future child.
I proudly introduced her to my parents. My mother was overjoyed.
“At last, there will be an heir,” she said, holding Nhung’s hand.
That only strengthened my confidence. I believed I had proven everything—that I was a real man, that I was whole, and that Thanh had been the problem all along.
We decided to get married immediately.
The wedding was extravagant.
Filled with guests.
Filled with praise.
Nhung wore a white gown, and I was overflowing with pride.
Until the wedding night arrived.
Inside the room, while Nhung was getting ready, I noticed something strange about the shape of her belly in the mirror. It wasn’t like any pregnancy I had seen before—too low, too firm, and showing none of the natural signs.
“Nhung,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm, “how many months are you supposed to be?”
“Six,” she answered immediately, avoiding my eyes.
My chest tightened.
“Where’s the ultrasound?” I asked.
“Where are the doctor’s prescriptions?”
She fell silent.
I stepped closer and placed my hand on her belly.
It didn’t move.
It wasn’t warm.
And when I gently lifted her dress, I saw the truth.
A fake belly.
Thick padding wrapped in fabric.
My entire body went cold.
“Where is the baby?!” I shouted. “Where is my child?!”
Nhung broke down, collapsing to the floor.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,” she sobbed.
“I’m not pregnant. I was just afraid you’d leave me too. I did this just so you would marry me.”
My world shattered.
In the silence of what should have been the happiest night of my life, I ran out of the hotel—directionless, stripped of dignity.
Only one name filled my mind: Thanh.
I went straight to our old house. The living room lights were still on. When she opened the door and saw me, she wasn’t surprised.
“I knew it,” she said calmly. “You would come.”
“I was deceived,” I said, barely holding back tears.
“She wasn’t carrying anything. It was all a lie.”
Thanh simply nodded.
“There’s one more thing I never told you,” she added.
She handed me an envelope—the real hospital test results.
“I wasn’t the problem,” she said softly.
“You were. Your sperm count is extremely low. There was almost no chance.”
I read the paper over and over. Every word felt like a knife stabbing my chest.
“I didn’t tell you,” she continued, “because I knew you couldn’t handle it. But instead of facing the truth, you chose to blame me… and destroy everything.”
I dropped to my knees. I couldn’t stop crying.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
But it was too late.
“I loved you,” Thanh said.
“But I loved myself more.”
She closed the door.
Years later, I heard she had a new family.
A son—healthy, happy.
While I…
Lost my wife.
Lost my dignity.
And the most painful truth of all—
I didn’t lose a child.
I never had the ability to have one in the first place.
Only then did I fully understand Thanh’s final words:
Some regrets don’t come to give you a second chance—
they come to remind you of everything you destroyed with your own hands.
Many years passed.
My life became quiet—too quiet. I still had a job, money, and a large but cold house. At every dinner, there was only one plate on the table. No voices. No one asking if I was tired. No one waiting.
I tried to start over.
There were other women.
Some loved me.
Some said, “It’s okay even if we don’t have children.”
But every time, fear lived inside me—fear of being blamed again, fear of running away again, fear of facing my own failures.
In the end, they all left too.
One day, by chance, I passed a small clinic. In the waiting area, I saw a familiar figure from behind. She was holding a little boy—energetic, laughing.
Thanh.
Her face looked peaceful. Her smile was clear. When our eyes met, she didn’t avoid me—she simply smiled politely, like a stranger I once knew.
“Is he your son?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“Yes,” she replied. “The gift of life.”
No bitterness.
No resentment.
I nodded.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes,” she answered immediately. “For a long time now.”
And in that moment, I finally understood—
She didn’t leave me because I was infertile.
She left me because I was a coward.
Because I chose to blame her instead of facing the truth.
Because I valued bloodline over love.
Because I loved my ego more than the woman who gave her entire life to me.
As they walked away, I remained standing there—alone.
For the first time, there was no one left to blame.
No woman.
No fate.
No lies.
Just me.
And this truth, learned too late:
Not every man with a name is a father.
Not everyone with money has dignity.
And not everything that is lost can be reclaimed—
especially when you were the one who pushed it away.