Sunshine After the Storm

I was looking down at the ultrasound report in my hand when Brandon suddenly spoke, his tone serious. Honey, there's something, something really important I have to tell you.

My heart pounded, and I instinctively placed a hand on my abdomen, filled with anticipation, thinking he was finally going to propose.

However, his next words hit me like a thunderclap: "I've already married someone else."

I froze. The ultrasound report slipped from my hand and fluttered to the floor with a soft thud.

"What did you say?" I couldn't believe my ears.

Seeing my reaction, Brandon rushed forward to embrace me, hastily explaining, "It was just a family arrangement. We're only married in name."

He continued, "As long as you don't make a scene, I can give you anything else, everything but that legal tie."

"Don't worry," he tried to reassure me, "you and the baby are my real family."

I pushed him away with all my strength, my voice eerily calm. "Brandon, we're over."

"And this baby," I told him, each word deliberate, "I'm having an abortion."

1.

"Are you insane?"

Brandon's voice exploded in the hospital hallway.

He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight my bones ached.

Those eyes, which I'd looked into for eight years, now stared at me, wide with disbelief.

"That's my child! What right do you have to just decide to end it?!"

I tried to shake his hand off, but couldn't.

"Your child? Brandon, you're married. If you want a child, go have one with your wife."

"Rebecca, don't be dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic."

He looked at me, his eyes actually a little red.

"What do you want that I can't give you?"

"Cars, houses, money, I'll give you as much as you want. Everything but that piece of paper, I can give you anything."

I stared at him.

Eight years ago, he'd cornered me outside the library, holding a crumpled bouquet of roses, telling me he'd had a crush on me for three years.

Eight years later, he stood in a hospital hallway, telling me he could give me anything but a marriage certificate.

"Brandon," I heard my own voice, unnervingly calm, "I've never been a mistress in my life, and I don't intend to start with you."

His face changed.

"Who are you calling a mistress?"

"Me."

He was speechless.

"As long as I keep this child, I'm a mistress."

"In your parents' eyes, I'm a mistress. In her parents' eyes, I'm a mistress. And when the child asks me, 'Mom, why aren't you Dad's wife?' what am I supposed to say?"

He was silent for a long time.

Long enough for the nurse at the end of the hall to peek out again.

Then he looked up, his gaze no longer angry or sad, but strangely distant.

"Rebecca Thorne, if you abort that child, we are truly over."

"We're already over."

"It was over the day you married someone else."

He took a step forward.

I didn't retreat.

"Who do you think is propping up your dad's project?"

My heart sank a little.

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer.

But I understood that look.

I turned.

And walked towards the consultation room.

He called out behind me, "Rebecca!"

I didn't stop.

"Stop right there!"

I pushed open the door to the consultation room.

Inside, a female doctor was writing a patient chart. She looked up at me.

"Miss, can I help you?"

"I'd like an abortion. Can I have it today?"

She glanced behind me.

Brandon stood in the doorway, not entering. His face was ashen.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No appointment. I'd like to make one now."

She flipped through her book. "Today is fully booked. The earliest is three days from now."

"Three days from now, then."

She looked at me, then at the doorway, and said nothing more.

She lowered her head and started writing the form.

I took the form and turned.

Brandon was still standing in the doorway.

He stared at the paper in my hand as if it were something untouchable.

"Rebecca..."

I walked around him.

And into the hallway.

Sunlight streamed through the window, falling in squares on the floor.

Three days from now.

I would come back.

By then, there would be nothing left.

2.

For those three days, I didn't leave the apartment.

The curtains were drawn; I couldn't tell day from night.

My belly was still flat, but I knew something was growing inside.

When I finally checked my phone

Missed calls: 47.

Messages: 93.

All from Brandon.

The earliest ones were voicemails, which I didn't open. Later, they turned into text:

[Rebecca, listen to me, I'll handle things on that end, just give me some time.]

[She and I are truly just married in name. I'll resolve it when the time is right.]

[The baby is innocent, please don't be impulsive, okay?]

Later, his tone gradually changed:

[Do you really have to push me like this?]

[I told you I'd handle it, what more do you want from me?]

The last message was sent this afternoon, just one line:

[The surgery is tomorrow, right? Don't regret it.]

I stared at that line for a long time.

He was waiting for me to back down.

I didn't reply.

On the day of the surgery, I sat on a bench in the hospital corridor, clutching my appointment slip, my palms drenched in sweat.

Ten minutes before the surgery, footsteps echoed from the end of the hall.

I looked up and saw my mom.

Her hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen, and she walked with a frantic pace.

"Rebecca!"

She rushed over, grabbing my hand.

"Mom? What are you doing here"

She was breathless. "Brandon called me."

"He said you two argued, and you're planning to abort the baby. He asked me to come talk some sense into you."

"Rebecca," my mom pleaded earnestly, "it's normal for young couples to argue, but don't take it out on the baby"

"Mom, please let go of me first."

She wouldn't release her grip.

Only then did I truly see her face.

Her eyes were swollen, dark circles beneath them, her lips dry and cracked.

"Mom, what's wrong? What happened?"

Her eyes flickered.

"Nothing, honey. Mom was just worried about you, couldn't sleep well all night..."

"No." I stared at her. "Tell me the truth."

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Then her eyes reddened, and her voice grew softer and softer.

"Your dad... your dad's company is in trouble."

"The project fell through, investors pulled out, and the penalty fees... we might have to sell the house."

"Mom didn't dare tell you, didn't want you to worry..."

My blood ran cold.

"Mom, sit down and wait for me for a moment. I need to go to the restroom."

I walked into the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

The door closed behind me, and the world instantly fell silent.

I dialed Brandons number.

"Thought it over?" Brandon's voice came from the other end, steady, as if he'd been waiting for this call.

"My dad's company troubles, that was you."

It wasn't a question.

On the other end of the line, he let out a soft chuckle.

Not a triumphant laugh, but a "you finally figured it out" kind of laugh.

"I just heard your dad's project hit a snag. I initially wanted to help, but you insisted on cutting ties with me."

His voice was gentle, as if he were discussing casual matters.

But it sent a shiver down my spine.

"Brandon, you're threatening me."

His voice finally dropped, no longer feigning.

"You stay, the baby stays, and I'll support your dad's business.

"But if you insist on breaking up with me and aborting the baby, I have no reason to intervene."

"What about her?"

There was a second of silence on the other end.

"I'll handle things on that end. Just give me time."

I closed my eyes.

The stairwell was dark, with only the faint green glow of the emergency exit sign.

"Fine. I'll keep the baby."

On the other end of the phone, he let out a long breath.

Then he said, "Rebecca, thank you. I'll send someone over right away. Your dad's situation will be stabilized tonight."

I didn't speak.

He continued, "I know you hate me right now. But you'll understand someday, everything I'm doing is for us."

I hung up.

Standing in the stairwell, holding my phone, I didn't move.

"For us."

I looked down at my abdomen.

It was still flat, nothing visible. But I knew a life was taking root inside.

A life he had forced me to keep.

I smiled.

As I smiled, tears fell.

He said he would handle things on that end.

He said to wait for him.

But from beginning to end, he never once said: "I will divorce her."

My phone vibrated again.

I didn't look.

I didn't need to; I knew who it was.

From now on, I would never believe his words again.

3.

Brandon was true to his word.

My dad's company was back to normal operations three days later.

The project resumed, investors returned, and no penalty fees were due.

My phone rang.

A message from Brandon: [Coming to see you tonight. What do you want to eat?]

I didn't reply.

He was used to it.

For the past two weeks, he'd sent messages daily, and I'd reply to one out of ten.

He'd come to the apartment, and I'd let him in, but wouldn't let him stay the night.

He never got angry.

Before he left, he always said the same thing: "Get some rest. Call me anytime if you need anything."

Like a thoughtful boyfriend.

Like nothing had ever happened.

That day, my phone blew up.

First, WeChat.

Countless friend requests poured in, the verification messages uniformly abusive:

"Mistress, go to hell!"

"Whore, still pretending!"

"May you die a horrible death for seducing someone's husband!"

Then, someone tagged me on Twitter.

I clicked it and found a post by a marketing account, accompanied by my photo.

The headline read:

[Exposed! Art curator climbs the social ladder as a mistress, uses pregnancy to usurp the legitimate wife!]

The text claimed I knowingly pursued Brandon despite him being married, using my pregnancy to force him into divorce.

It said the legitimate wife was so furious she was hospitalized, and that the apartment I lived in was bought by Brandon with their marital assets.

The comment section was nothing but curses directed at me.

My hands started to tremble.

I scrolled down.

My dad's company address was dug up, with comments saying, "This company's products are trash, anyone who cooperates with them is an idiot."

My stomach churned, and I rushed to the toilet to throw up.

I knew it was Amelia Bowens doing.

After throwing up, I sat on the cold tiles.

My legs felt numb from the cold.

But my mind, paradoxically, cleared.

Returning to the living room, I opened my phone's photo album.

September 2017, outside the university library, Brandon had his arm around me, smiling, all eight teeth showing.

That was the first day he'd won me over.

April 2018, my birthday, he bought me a cake.

The background was our first shared rental apartment.

Summer 2019, by Lake Tahoe, he carried me on his back along the boardwalk.

Chinese New Year 2020, he came to my home for dinner.

2021, he graduated, and I put his graduation cap on him. He hugged me, flashing a peace sign at the camera.

2022, we moved into our new house. He cooked noodles for me in the kitchen, and I secretly took a picture of his back.

Every picture had a timestamp.

Every picture proved that before 2023, we had already been together for six years.

Brandon and Amelia Bowen had married in March 2022.

I selected nine representative photos and posted them in a nine-grid collage.

Accompanied by a single line of text:

[Who's the mistress? You decide for yourselves.]

After posting, I tossed my phone onto the couch.

When I picked it up again, that tweet had been retweeted over ten thousand times.

The comments section had shifted.

"Wait, according to this timeline, they were together for six years before he got married?"

"Holy cow, so Amelia Bowen is the real homewrecker who took over?"

"Pot calling the kettle black? That's some messed-up move."

Someone dug up Amelia Bowen's Twitter account.

She had previously posted a photo showing off her wedding ring, dated April 2022.

The comments section had been taken over:

"You're the mistress, aren't you?"

"You stole someone's boyfriend and then blamed them?"

"What a socialite, utterly disgusting."

Another half hour passed.

The hashtag #AmeliaBowenIsTheMistress topped the trending list.

My phone rang.

It was my mom.

"Rebecca! Mom saw it! Are you okay?" Her voice was urgent and full of concern.

"I'm fine, Mom." I held my phone, but my eyes welled up.

"What is that Amelia Bowen? How dare she bully my daughter?"

I paused, surprised. My mom never swore.

"Mom, are you really okay?"

"What could be wrong with me?" Her voice was full of vigor. "Just now, many people came to your dad's company with flowers, saying 'support the original partner'."

I held my phone, tears silently falling.

"Rebecca, Mom almost misunderstood you. Mom thought you really..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

"It's okay, Mom."