You Were My Greatest Regret, Husband

My sister’s son was diagnosed with uremia and urgently needed a kidney transplant. After testing, the only suitable match was my daughter.

My sister knelt in front of me, pleading desperately. But my husband immediately ordered the bodyguard to throw her out.

“I will never allow anyone to harm Grace,” he said coldly.

But the next morning, my daughter was gone.

I was frantic with worry. My husband mobilized all his resources and connections to search for her, but no leads turned up.

Half a month later, they found my daughter’s lifeless body dumped in a septic tank.

She had always been so particular about her appearance, but when we found her, she was covered in filth, disfigured beyond recognition.

I was devastated. My husband held me tightly, grief and rage contorting his face.

“I will hunt down whoever did this and make them pay,” he promised.

Overcome with sorrow, I fell into deep depression. Through it all, my husband stayed by my side, nursing me, comforting me, whispering to me:

“We’ll have another baby. Once you recover, we’ll bring Grace back to us.”

Encouraged by his warmth, I slowly pulled myself out of the darkness and began preparing for a new pregnancy.

I genuinely believed he loved me—that he, too, was trying to find light beyond the loss.

Then, five months into my pregnancy, I discovered a document that shattered everything: a kidney donation consent form.

My husband had signed it as Grace’s legal guardian, agreeing to donate one of her kidneys to my sister’s son.

That night, I opened his phone, and the messages I read nearly stopped my heart.

He had pushed for this pregnancy not out of love or healing—but because he wanted another "spare" organ donor.

All the tenderness, the care, the supposed grief—it was all an act, a cold, calculated plan.

When I confronted him, he snapped. The mask fell away.

——

In his messages to my sister, he wrote:

“Ethan, you’re always so considerate. Henry Wheeler still isn’t fully recovered, and I’m terrified of a relapse. I feel awful seeing my sister suffer like this. If I could take the pain away, I would.”

“I hemorrhaged badly when I gave birth to Henry. I can’t have children anymore. It’s all my fault.”

Ethan Wells responded gently:

“Don’t blame yourself. You’ve suffered ever since you were little. Even now, we can’t be together openly. The pain Samantha Carter endures is just karma for what she owes you.”

“You’re both daughters of the Carter family, yet she’s always had everything while you were pushed aside. I’ve seen it all these years. This time, I’ll protect you no matter what.”

“When she gives birth, I’ll have her sent to a psychiatric ward. I’ll make sure you never suffer again.”

I covered my mouth in horror, trying not to scream. My entire body trembled uncontrollably.

Beside me, Ethan stirred awake and, half-asleep, wrapped his arms around me.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “your husband is here.”

But my heart had already shattered. I couldn’t breathe.

That morning’s donation form burned in my mind. And I remembered what they did to my Grace.

She was so small, her face swollen and unrecognizable, her body wet and cold and broken.

I had held her close and wailed like a madwoman. I could feel my soul dying with hers.

Through it all, Ethan had stayed by my side, comforting me, pretending.

He had even knelt and said:

“Grace wouldn’t want to see her mother this way. Let’s get up and fight for justice—for her, okay?”

I believed him. I fought to stay strong.

When the investigation concluded and someone was finally arrested, I broke down in his arms, crying uncontrollably.

I thought justice had been served.

But yesterday, the truth surfaced.

Grace’s real killer was none other than her own father—my husband.

The man who was arrested? Just a scapegoat. A convenient pawn.

I didn’t sleep all night.

When morning came, the first thing Ethan did was roll over, hug my belly, and kiss it.

“Wife,” he murmured softly, “this must be our Grace, come back to us.”