I was thirty weeks pregnant when the doctor fell silent. No heartbeat. My world shattered. My husband arrived, staring at the floor, saying nothing. His mother, however, immediately spoke—but not kindly.
“Your body rejected bad genes,” she said. I froze. He didn’t defend me. Then she whispered urgently, pressed a key and a note into my hand: an empty apartment, hers to give me, a way out.
Within days, she helped me move. I never returned to that house. My husband called once—not asking about me or the baby, only complaining about being alone. That’s when I realized I hadn’t lost a partner—I’d uncovered a lie.
Weeks later, his mother revealed the truth: he had never wanted children. He’d married me to fulfill a will and planned to leave after the baby for money and freedom. She had overheard everything and quietly prepared to protect me. After the stillbirth, she made sure I could disappear safely, leaving him with nothing.
The apartment is mine. My ex lost the inheritance, and the woman he thought he’d start over with vanished. He doesn’t know it, but the person who destroyed his plan—and saved me—was his own mother.