Chapter 3

Margaret moved into our home with her newborn son.

I’d never imagined having a child—let alone caring for one during the postpartum period. I didn’t know the first thing about “sitting the month,” as they called it.

The moment we stepped inside, Margaret began barking orders. “Evelyn, start cooking. A woman in confinement needs six meals a day.”

I scrambled to follow her handwritten meal plan, fumbling through each dish in a haze of confusion and exhaustion.

Then came the crying—sharp, insistent wails from the nursery.

Margaret, spooning congee into her mouth, didn’t even look up. “The baby’s crying! Go soothe him. I’ve just given birth—if I overexert myself now, I’ll suffer lifelong consequences.”

I stood frozen, staring at the tiny creature swaddled in the crib. He was impossibly small, his skin soft as petals. I had no idea how to hold him, let alone calm him.

Margaret clicked her tongue. “I risked my life to give you a healthy baby boy, and you can’t even be bothered to pick him up? You skipped all the pain of pregnancy—now you won’t lift a finger? Unbelievable…”

Give me a son?

Did I ask her to?

My parents, wracked with guilt over my condition, had paid for our wedding house outright—and put both our names on the deed. That was the understanding from the start.

Just as I opened my mouth to snap back, Christopher pulled me into the bedroom.

He handled the baby with surprising ease—bottling formula, rocking him gently until the cries faded. It wasn’t until ten that night that he finally returned to our room.

By then, my anger had boiled over. “Why is your mother bringing this up again? We agreed years ago—we wouldn’t have children. And what does she mean, ‘gave me a son’? Did I beg her for this? No. I don’t want him. She gave birth to him—she can raise him. Tell her to leave tomorrow.”

The words tumbled out in one furious breath.

Christopher stood silent, eyes downcast. That quiet obedience infuriated me more than shouting ever could. I grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him.

“Did you know? Were you in on this the whole time? Of course you were—you and your mother plotted this behind my back! I should’ve realized: no matter how hard I try, I’ll never matter as much as she does to you!”

I knew the last part was cruel—but it was also true.

Christopher was nearly perfect in every way. I loved him deeply, and I’d always been grateful for how he’d accepted my infertility without hesitation.

Because of that love, I’d swallowed my pride for years, accepting my place second to his mother in his heart.

Now he pulled me into his arms, massaging my tense shoulders with gentle hands. In the dim light, his profile looked tired but earnest—so handsome it made my chest ache. My anger softened, just a little.

“I swear I didn’t lie to you,” he murmured. “Something like this can’t stay hidden. Mom only told me two days ago that she was near her due date. I was trying to figure out how to break it to you… I never expected her to go into labor early.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “But now that it’s happened… I can’t just abandon her. She’s still my mother.”

His voice carried real weariness, even sorrow.

It struck me as odd. For someone so devoted to filial duty, his relationship with Margaret never quite fit the picture of “loving mother, dutiful son.” Even I—a mere daughter-in-law—could see how little warmth she showed him.

My resentment eased. I placed my hand over his, ready to offer some comfort.

Then he hesitated.

“There’s… one more thing.”

Every nerve in my body went rigid.

“Mom says… since we can’t have children of our own, this baby is a gift from heaven—for us.”

My head throbbed. I shot upright in bed.

“No. Absolutely not.”

The idea was grotesque. My brother-in-law—Mason’s half-brother—being passed off as my son?

Then a chilling thought struck me.

“Christopher,” I said slowly, voice tight. “Tell me the truth—did you go register him at the civil office this afternoon?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor.

In that silence, I felt everything collapse—the betrayal, the absurdity, the sheer cruelty of it all. And worst of all? How utterly predictable it was.