Birth Control Pills from My Husband Made Me Ran To An Old Love

Three years. Three years of trying to conceive with my husband, only to be met with disappointment time and time again.

Then one day, in front of my best friend—who also happened to be a doctor—I casually took my daily folic acid supplement. She grabbed the bottle from my hands, her brows furrowing as she examined it.

A moment later, she crushed one of the pills into powder and studied it closely.

"This isn’t folic acid," she said, her voice dangerously low. "It’s birth control."

My stomach dropped. "That’s impossible."

But I trusted her. I sent the pills to a laboratory for testing. The results came back, confirming my worst fear. For three years, I had been unknowingly taking birth control pills.

Ferry Zach, my husband, had been the one giving them to me. He had always been so gentle, so considerate—handing me a pill before every time we were intimate, assuring me it was good for my health and would help with conception. He had been lying to me all along.

I was preparing to confront him when my phone vibrated with a message from our college friend group. It was from Chindy May.

The picture attached to her message made my blood run cold—a pregnancy test, with two bold red-purple lines.

Her message followed.

[Hubby, let's make a bet, okay?]

[Do you think I'll give birth to a little Zach or a little May?]

[I bet on a little Zach.]

Two minutes later, she sent another message, feigning embarrassment.

[Oops, sorry everyone, I sent that to the wrong chat. I can’t delete it now, so let’s just pretend we didn’t see it, okay?]

A cold, bitter smile curled my lips. Any lingering sense of morality or restraint I had left shattered in that moment.

I replied calmly, my fingers steady despite the storm raging inside me:

[Give me a month. I’ll come with you.]

——

The group chat fell silent.

Then, one by one, the messages started pouring in.

[Congratulations!]

[When did you two get married? Why didn’t you tell us? We need to celebrate!]

Someone initiated a payment transfer, a tradition in our group—a small token of congratulations. Others quickly followed, sending their well wishes and money.

Chindy hesitated for a moment before replying with two shy emoji faces.

[Thank you all for your blessings. Please, let’s not make a big deal out of it. Just pretend you didn’t see anything.]

How could they pretend? This group was full of Ferry’s college friends—the same people he had introduced me to after we got married, saying, "These are my friends. You should get to know them."

Back then, when they had asked him who I was, he had simply said a friend.

[Introduce her then! Maybe one of us single guys will get lucky,] someone had joked.

Ferry had fallen silent. So had I. I had never truly belonged in that group. I had been an outsider, observing from the shadows. Back then, even Chindy had dismissed them.

[You guys act like you’ve never seen a woman before. Go find one yourselves.]

The Zach Family and my own—the Gardner Family—were both prominent and wealthy. Our parents had wanted a grand wedding, an extravagant celebration of our union. But Ferry had brushed it off. "I’m in the prime of my career right now. I don’t even have time for a small wedding, let alone a grand one. Let’s postpone it."

That postponement had stretched into five years. Eventually, I had stopped hoping for a wedding at all. It didn’t matter anymore.

Even now, his friends still didn’t know he was married. And they certainly didn’t know that he was married to me. Meanwhile, they all knew about Chindy—the woman who had once been his golden girl in college, his supposed ‘best friend.’

My phone buzzed with more messages, the screen lighting up in my clenched hand.

I stared at it, my vision blurred with unshed tears. My heart ached, but I couldn’t bring myself to cry. I had no idea how to process the pain, how to unleash the rage simmering inside me.

For a fleeting moment, I hoped—hoped that Ferry would step in, deny everything, call it a misunderstanding. But he didn’t. His friends laughed and cheered, tagging him relentlessly. Still, he remained silent.

Then, finally, Chindy sent one last message.

[Thanks again, everyone. Consider this a small meeting gift for the baby.]

[Once the baby is born, we’ll all get together to celebrate.]