He Gave His Brother’s Widow His Sperm as a Gift

“Thank you for your sperm — I finally have a child of my own.”

That was the caption my husband’s widowed sister-in-law, Clarissa Jenkins, posted on Facebook.

And she tagged Eden, my husband.

I stared at the screen, frozen. Surely, I was seeing it wrong.

When I called to confront him, his furious voice hit me like a slap.

“Clarissa lost her husband, Lucia! This is her only hope! How can you be so cold?”

Even his parents joined in.

“Clarissa was Cameron’s widow,” they said. “It’s Eden’s duty to take care of her.”

But what Eden said next shattered the last piece of my dignity.

“You’re the one who can’t get pregnant, Lucia. I just wanted a child. That’s not a crime.”

Not a crime.

The same man who once begged me to be child-free, who slipped birth-control pills into my vitamins, now stood there justifying it.

Something inside me broke cleanly then — the kind of break that doesn’t heal.

I took a long breath, steady, cold.

“Let’s get a divorce, Eden.”

……

When I booked the abortion appointment for tomorrow, Eden Jenkins came home.

We’ve been married for seven years. Seven years of pretending we were perfectly happy with our child-free marriage — his idea, not mine.

But a few days ago, I found out I was two months pregnant.

I was going to tell him on our anniversary. I even rehearsed how I’d say it — “Eden, we could try. Maybe it’s time.”

Now, there’s nothing left to say.

He dropped a paper bag on the table and came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“Baby,” he said softly, “I brought your favorite — seafood risotto from La Mer. Eat while it’s hot.”

I glanced at the sad little box — soggy rice, one lonely shrimp, and the faint smell of reheated leftovers. So that’s how much I was worth now: someone’s half-eaten dinner.

“I’m not hungry.”

He laughed it off, grabbed a spoon, and tried to feed me like I was the problem to fix.

“Come on, sweetheart. This isn’t like you.”

The smell of fish hit me like a wave. I bolted for the bathroom and threw up until my throat burned. He followed, reaching to rub my back. I slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me.”

He froze, then his tone changed — sharp, defensive.

“What the hell, Lucia? I’m trying here! You’ve been cold for days, snapping at everything I say! I’m still apologizing, still begging, and you—”

“Apologizing?” My voice cracked, part fury, part disbelief. “You think I should congratulate another woman for carrying your child?”

He tugged at his tie, eyes narrowing. “Clarissa lost her husband. She’s been through hell. She wanted a baby, a reason to live again. What was I supposed to do? I’m Cameron’s brother. Taking care of his widow is my duty.”

“Your duty?” I almost laughed. “Donating your sperm is your duty?”

He groaned, frustrated. “It wasn’t like that! It was a donation, nothing more. Don’t twist it into something ugly. God, you sound paranoid. Jealous.”

A jealous, paranoid wife. That’s what I’d become — at least in his story.

But I remember the beginning — Clarissa’s tears at the dinner table, the way she said, “If Cameron were still here…”

I was the one who comforted her, who cooked for her, who told her she wasn’t alone. Eden was just helping — carrying her groceries, fixing her lights, mowing her lawn.

Until one day, he stopped asking me to come along.

And I let him. Because I trusted him.

Now, the man I loved looked at me like I was hysterical, like I was the one destroying this marriage.

He raised his voice. “Maybe you should look at yourself for once. Think about how selfish you’ve been!”

Then he slammed the door and left.

I didn’t need to guess where he went.

Minutes later, my phone buzzed — an Instagram post from Clarissa.

A photo: her belly, his hand over it.

The caption: “Baby’s daddy is home tonight. He says this is where he belongs.”

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, a bitter laugh slipping from my lips.

So this was love — rotting quietly while I wasn’t looking.

The moment he stopped calling her “sister-in-law” and started calling her Clarissa, it was already over.

Fine. Let him have his home.

Tomorrow, I’ll erase every trace of this mistake — him, her, and the child I once dreamed of keeping.