Every time, he delayed endlessly before replying to my messages.
“I’m doing this to earn milk powder money for our baby. Checkups aren’t such a big deal. Even if I go, I can’t really help, and it’s just a waste of time. Things you can handle yourself, you should just do on your own.”
Yet with Cynthia, it was never the same. He stayed by her side, let her rest, protected her pregnancy, and walked with her through every prenatal checkup. No matter how busy his days became, he never missed one.
He said he longed for the day their baby would be born, that she and the child were the treasures of his life.
As I scrolled further, my heart twisted so tight it felt like it was being ripped apart, the pain cutting deep.
Whenever I carried a child, they were only discussing how to destroy it.
Even the accident a year ago, when I was pregnant, it was Cynthia who drove the car. She said she wanted the thrill of striking someone, and Javon, smiling, had agreed.
He offered only one careless warning. “Go easy.”
They spoke with ease about wounding me, about killing my children, as if it were no different from discussing the weather.
My nails dug deep into my palm until blood seeped out in drops.
I opened the photo album, tens of thousands of pictures, every one of them filled with Cynthia. Selfies, stolen shots, scenes of them waking up together, walking together, going home together… even Javon, carefully preparing meals for her while she was pregnant.
Then came the 99+ recorded videos. The moment I switched, it was like a basin of ice water poured over my head, chilling me to the marrow.
Endless clips of their bare bodies entwined, as if they had made it a point to capture every single encounter.
They even role-played, Javon, dressed in a maid's outfit, kneeling before her.
I gripped my stomach, the nausea rising until words failed me.
And then I saw them, six videos, labeled from “First” to “Sixth.”
Realization struck, and my blood surged wildly, the metallic taste of iron rushing up my throat.
I bit my lips until they bled and clicked on the sixth.
Javon and Cynthia were laughing and talking together.
In front of them, that knife felt as if it slashed straight through me, my heart torn into a thousand jagged pieces, the pain so sharp it curled in my stomach until I bent over the bedside, retching violently.
I didn’t close my eyes the entire night, my tears soaking through my clothes like a relentless storm.
The next morning, Javon, just as always, brought me a “heartfelt” breakfast.
So many varieties, American, Italian, soy milk, fried dough sticks, bread, egg tarts.
Before, I had thought this was his love for me. But now I understood, it was nothing more than indifferent, hollow gestures.
The memory of last night’s videos surged back, and I retched again.
Seeing me unwell, Javon looked stricken.
“Why are you still sick? It’s all my fault, I’ve made you suffer.”
“It’s nothing. I just want to go home.”
Javon’s expression froze for a brief moment.
“You just miscarried, and Mom’s not happy right now. If you go back, you’ll walk right into her anger. Better to wait a while, spare yourself from her temper.”
I didn’t reply, but from his face, I had already guessed enough.
That afternoon, when he wasn’t around, I packed my things and wheeled myself home.
The moment I entered, I saw Cynthia perched on Javon’s lap, the two of them laughing softly as they played with the child.
From the kitchen, Sharon, my mother-in-law, came out with a steaming bowl of vegetable soup, personally feeding it to Cynthia with gentle care.
The three of them, chatting, laughing, smiling together, looked every bit like a real family.
But the instant her gaze landed on me, Sharon’s eyes sharpened like blades.
“You unlucky bitch! You still have the face to come back? My son gives you fine food and comfort every day, and how do you repay us? A wretched, unlucky thing like you deserves to rot outside.”
“You knew you were pregnant, yet you kept leaping about like a fool. How many lives of the Davis family have you ruined already?! Why didn’t you fall to your death, you filthy wretch?!”
