My Sons Body Wasnt Even Cold and My Husband Threw a Party for His Mistresss New Baby
For that, Ethan, my husband, flew into a rage. He ordered our son, Leo, locked inside the garden’s wrought-iron gates, demanding he plant 999 new roses as penance.
What he didn’t see was the bee that stung Leo’s leg. He didn’t see our son collapse onto the manicured lawn, his small body convulsing.
I screamed, pounding my fists against the cold iron bars, my voice tearing itself raw.
"Ethan, for God's sake, open your eyes! A bee stung Leo! He’s allergic! Open the gate, or he’ll go into shock—he could die!"
Ethan stood on the veranda, his arm wrapped around Tessa, his high school flame. He stared down at me, his face a mask of cold disappointment.
"Leah, I've told you. This is my garden, built for Tessa. It’s not a playground." His voice was calm, which made it crueler. "You let Leo run wild, and now you can’t handle a little bee sting? This allergy nonsense is just another thing you’ve coddled into him."
Tessa, nestled against his chest, rolled her eyes with theatrical boredom. "Honestly, Leah. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Your son has destroyed dozens of my flowers. A little lesson in consequences is long overdue."
They turned and walked back into the house, their silhouettes merging into one.
I grabbed a rusted garden spade and slammed it against the lock, again and again, the metal screeching in protest. But it was too late.
Through the bars, I watched the red welts bloom across my son’s skin. I saw his frantic struggles grow weaker, smaller, until they stopped completely. The terrible silence that followed was louder than my own screaming.
I collapsed, my pleas turning to dust in my mouth. I begged him to wake up, to say "Mama" just one more time.
He never did.
An hour later, the lock finally shattered. I stumbled through the gate.
At that exact moment, my phone buzzed. A notification. Ethan had posted on Instagram. It was an ultrasound photo.
The caption read: One more precious life to protect. @Tessa, my hero.
My heart didn't break. It just turned to ash. I walked back inside the cold, silent house, found the divorce papers I’d drafted months ago, signed them, and left them on his desk in the study.
Then, I arranged for the funeral home.
And under his post, I tapped out a comment and hit send.
【May your little miracle have a long and happy life.】
1
A second later, my phone rang. Ethan’s voice, incandescent with rage, exploded into the solemn quiet of the funeral home.
"Leah, what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The sound was a desecration in this quiet, sterile place.
"Tessa and I have history. It’s my duty to take care of her. You know that!" he bellowed. "And what did you do to the garden? You break the gate, you drag Leo out, and then you stomp holes all over the lawn? What is wrong with you two? Is destruction your only purpose?"
He took a breath, his fury gathering steam. "Don’t think for a second I’m letting this go. You get Leo and you bring him back here to plant every single one of those roses, or you can forget about ever setting foot in this house again!"
I looked down at my hands, swollen and red from battling the gate. The pain was a dull, distant throb, a faint echo of the gaping wound in my chest. Across the room, the mortician was gently removing the stinger from my son’s small, still body. The very thing that had stolen his life.
"Ethan," I said, my voice hollow. "Leo is dead. And I will never set foot in your house again."
There was a pause. Then, a short, sharp laugh of disbelief. "Wow, Leah. You’ve really taken this whole victim act to a new level, haven't you? Cursing our own son to death just to win an argument?"
Then I heard it. A soft, feminine gasp in the background, cutting off whatever I might have said next.
The ultrasound photo flashed in my mind. He had a new child with his new love. He didn't actually care if our son was alive or dead.
I let out a long, shuddering breath. "Ethan, the divorce papers are on your desk. I’ve already signed them. Sign them, and you can be with your childhood sweetheart forever. No one is stopping you."
Just as I finished speaking, the doors to the viewing room swung open. Two stooped, elderly figures hurried in, leaning heavily on their canes. Ethan’s grandparents. "Where’s my Leo?" his grandfather demanded, his voice trembling. "What is this nonsense? What happened?"
Seeing their faces, etched with genuine love for my son, the dam inside me finally broke. The tears I’d been holding back streamed down my face as I collapsed into Grandma Blackwell’s arms.
"It’s my fault," I sobbed. "I’m a terrible mother. I couldn’t protect him. He was in so much pain."
She wept with me, holding me tight. Grandpa Blackwell, his face pale, forced himself to walk to the small casket. He stood there for a long moment, his shoulders shaking, before two lines of tears carved their way down his wrinkled cheeks.
"I had every beehive on this property removed!" he rasped, his voice thick with grief and rage. "I hired men to patrol the grounds! Where did this bee come from? It was that bastard’s private garden, wasn't it!"
A bitter smile touched my lips. Ethan knew. Of course, he knew Leo was deathly allergic. Years ago, after the first bad reaction, Ethan had torn up the entire estate, poured concrete over every flowerbed, terrified that a stray bee might find its way to our son.
But that was before Tessa came back.
After she moved in, everything changed. Ethan didn’t just allow her to replant the gardens; he let her install beehives, calling it a "return to a natural symbiosis."
When I’d come to him, holding Leo, his face swollen from another, milder sting, Ethan had barely looked up. "Fine," he’d said with an annoyed sigh. "I'll have a fence put up. That way Leo can't get in, and he'll be safe."
A fence. As if an iron fence could stop something with wings.
The image of Leo’s final moments flooded my mind again. His body twitching on the grass. My desperate, useless assault on the gate. His big, beautiful eyes, wide with a final, lingering look at a world he didn't want to leave.
I had begged the mortician to cover the marks, the horrifying welts and rashes. As if hiding the evidence of his pain could somehow bring him back, as if the sweet boy who whispered "Mama" would just wake up from a bad dream.
It was all a fantasy.
The mortician covered the last red mark on his cheek and set down his brush. He walked toward me, his expression full of a gentle sorrow.
"Ma'am," he said softly. "The young master is ready. He’s at peace now."
It was only then I realized the line was still open. Ethan’s voice, dripping with sarcasm, crackled through the phone.
"Are you serious, Leah? You’re really putting on a show. Dragging my grandparents into your little melodrama wasn't enough? Now you've hired an actor to talk about him being 'at peace'? What, are you guys actually at a funeral home?"
I was too tired to fight anymore. "Yes, Ethan. Our son is at the funeral home. If you come now, you can see him one last time."
He scoffed.
"Leah, have some damn self-respect! It was a bee sting. If he had a reaction, you take him to the emergency room. It's not a death sentence. Do you think I'm that stupid?"
He wasn't finished. "Like mother, like son. No wonder Leo’s become such a liar lately. So needy."
That was it. Grandpa snatched the phone from my hand. "You bastard!" he roared. "Are you still with that little tramp? You get your ass over here right now!"
He’d barely gotten the words out before he clutched his chest, gasping, and the phone crashed to the floor.
"Arthur!" Grandma cried, rushing to his side, but he pushed her away, his face contorted in agony.
"Our family is cursed!" he wailed, tears of rage and sorrow streaming down his face. "The grandson you raised… he just told me… he said it doesn’t matter if Leo is dead. He said that tramp has another one in her belly, a better one! That animal!"
Grandma froze, her own tear-filled eyes wide with shock. She turned to me, her voice a desperate plea. "Leah, don’t you listen to him. Don’t you dare. You are our family. Leo is our only grandson."
She squared her shoulders. "Your grandfather and I are going home right now. We’re throwing that witch out on the street, and we are going to drag that boy here to get on his knees and beg for your forgiveness!"
A sourness rose in my throat. I shook my head. "Grandma, it's okay. Ethan’s heart is somewhere else now. It’s better for Leo and me to just go."
I looked at them, my voice barely a whisper. "I’m so tired. It’s time to go."
They stared at me, their faces a portrait of helpless grief. There was nothing left to say.
The three of us stood before the cremation chamber all night, a silent, heartbroken vigil, until a technician handed me a small, heavy box.
I held it tight, hailed a taxi, and went home.
Leo’s things were still in that cold house. I would be damned if I was going to leave them for the father who didn't love him.
But when I pushed open the front door, I was hit by a wall of sound and light. It was a party.
"Whoa, Tessa, you’re amazing! A little princess for our man Ethan!"
2
The entire house was draped in pink. Ethan and Tessa’s friends were raising champagne flutes in a toast.
One of them was waving my signed divorce papers in the air. "Hey, Ethan, this charity case wife of yours has some nerve. Divorcing you, and she's even walking away with nothing."
"She’s insane," another laughed. "A broke single mom? Does she have any idea what she’s getting into?"
"Hey, if she wants to take the kid, let her," someone slurred. "That little brat was always so… common. An embarrassment to the Blackwell name."
"Exactly! Cheers to Tessa! Let's hope the next one's a boy—a real Blackwell heir!"
The room erupted in laughter. I pushed the door fully open and stepped inside. The noise died instantly.
Ethan glanced at me, his eyes cool and dismissive, then tightened his arm around Tessa, deliberately turning away.
"Heir, princess, what's the difference?" he said to the crowd, pretending I wasn't there. "My daughter will be brilliant. Tessa and I are starting her education in the womb."
He picked up a small model airplane from the coffee table and held it against Tessa’s slightly rounded belly.
My breath caught in my throat. It was Leo’s favorite toy. The first model Ethan had ever built with him. I had bought him dozens of newer, more expensive toys since, but Leo insisted on sleeping with that little plane every night. Because, he said, it smelled like Daddy.
And now, his beloved father was giving it to another woman’s child.
Something inside me snapped. I lunged forward, my voice a raw scream. "Ethan! Our son’s body isn't even cold! How could you do this to him?"
The air around Ethan dropped ten degrees. His hand flew out, and the crack of his palm against my cheek echoed through the room. "Leah, what did I tell you about the theatrics? Hasn't this 'dead son' act gone on long enough?"
My head snapped back, hitting the sharp corner of the console table. A warm trickle of blood slid down my neck.
And the model airplane, Leo’s most precious treasure, fell to the floor. Ethan brought his heel down on it, crushing the delicate wings into splinters.
"It’s just a toy! What's the big deal about giving it to his sister? Is this how you raised him? To be selfish?"
He sneered, his face ugly with contempt. "He didn't plant a single rose, just left a mess of holes in the lawn. And now you two think you can defy me?"
Looking at his face, all I could see was the agony on my son's. A wave of hatred so pure washed over me that I wanted to drag him by the hair and force him to kneel before Leo's ashes.
But then, my son’s voice from that terrible afternoon echoed in my ears. He had been holding a tiny rose seedling, his eyes puffy from crying, trying to comfort me.
"Don’t cry, Mama. Don't be mad at Daddy. It’s my fault. I can do it."
"He was a little mean, though. He didn't even hug me when I fell, he just yelled. If he does it again, I’m not going to talk to him anymore."
"Mama? Can we not talk to him together?"
I closed my eyes, forcing down the tidal wave of grief. When I opened them, my voice was steady.
"You're right. I'm not fit to be a mother. And I’m not fit to be a Blackwell. Just sign the papers. Then we are done with each other, forever."
A cruel smile twisted Ethan's lips. "You want me to sign? Fine. Get on your knees. Apologize to Tessa. Tell her you’re sorry for letting your son ruin her garden. Tell her you’re sorry for ruining her party."
He leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. "When she’s satisfied, I’ll sign."
At his words, Tessa straightened up, a smug, triumphant look on her face. The other guests leaned in, their eyes gleaming. Someone started placing bets.
"A hundred bucks says she won't do it. She really thought she could drive Tessa away. Idiot."
"Nah, she'll be bawling in a minute, begging Ethan for forgiveness. Maybe that kid she's hiding will come crawling back, and they can plant the roses together."
The next sound was the soft thud of my knees hitting the floor. "I’m sorry," I said, my voice flat. "I was wrong."
I bowed my head, and my forehead struck a shard from the broken airplane. A sharp, searing pain, and then more blood. I didn't feel it. I began to crawl, moving toward them, bowing my head to the floor with each movement.
But it was a game. As I moved forward, Tessa would take a laughing step back, leading me around the room like a dog on a leash.
The mood in the room shifted. The drunken jeers turned to nervous murmurs.
"Ethan, man… maybe that's enough. She's bleeding a lot. This is getting out of hand."
"Yeah, look at her face, she's white as a ghost. What if something really happens?"
"Just sign it, man. She wants to leave, let her leave. It’s time you made things official with Tessa anyway."
I paused, glancing behind me. A long, dark smear of blood trailed behind me on the polished floor. It looked shocking, even to me.
I ignored it and prepared to bow again. But this time, a foot shot out, and Ethan kicked me onto my side.
The signed divorce papers fluttered down onto my face.
"Fine! It's signed!" he snarled. "Stop playing the martyr. You think I was afraid to do it?"
"Get out," he spat. "Take your kid and get out! But you remember this: the second you walk out that door, your son forfeits every penny of his inheritance. Don't ever come crawling back to me."
3
I’d lost too much blood. The room spun as I struggled to my feet, clutching the papers in my hand.
Ethan’s eyes were locked on me, daring me to break. I just opened the document to the last page, saw his signature, and smiled.
"Good," I said. "Now I’m going to pack Leo’s things."
I turned and walked to my son's room.
The moment I closed the door, the noise of the party vanished. I sagged against the wood, a film of tears blurring my vision.
Leo's little quilt was still rumpled on his bed. The fairy tale book we were reading was on his nightstand, open to the page we’d left off on last night. It felt like at any second, he would leap out of the closet, pretending to be a ghost, trying to scare me with his giggles.
Wiping my eyes, I pulled a suitcase from his closet and began to pack. His clothes, his toys, his books, the little clay animals he made in preschool. I cried and I smiled, placing each precious item inside, until my fingers brushed against a small, glass bottle.
Inside were slips of faded paper. I tipped them out, my hands trembling. They were IOUs, written in two different hands—one a man’s elegant script, the other a child’s clumsy scrawl.
It was from when Leo was three, when he was so attached to me that he refused to sleep anywhere but in my bed. Ethan, frustrated, would sneak into the room in the middle of the night and carry me back to ours.
"This is ridiculous," he would mutter, half-joking. "I gave birth to my own rival."
"I miss my wife," he'd whisper. "Can't you spend a little time with me?"
But our little boy would wake up, toddle after us, and pummel Ethan's legs with his tiny fists, calling him a "Mama thief."
So they made a deal. They would take turns. If one of them wanted an extra night, he had to write an IOU to the other. Ethan, with his charming, silly arguments, always managed to convince Leo, and soon, he had a thick stack of IOUs from his son.
Then Tessa came back.
The nights I spent in Leo’s bed grew more and more frequent. I thought he would be happy to have me all to himself, but instead, a shadow fell over him.
"Mama," he’d asked one night, his voice small. "Did you and Daddy have a fight? He hasn't come to see me in a long time."
He took my hand and led me to the master bedroom, knocking softly on the door. He told me he would write an IOU to Daddy, so I could sleep with him.
When the door opened, Tessa was on the bed, her face flushed, her body languid.
The memory of that night, a new and different kind of pain, stabbed at me. I shook it away, my hands fumbling with the last slip of paper from the bottle. It was from Leo. The crayon letters were wobbly and huge.
【I want Mommy and Daddy to take me to Disneyland to see the fireworks!】
He’d been asking since the beginning of the year. But Ethan always had an excuse, always something to do with Tessa, and we never went.
And now, he never could.
Swallowing the regret that burned in my throat, I booked a flight for the following afternoon and closed the suitcase.
On impulse, I lay down on my son's little bed, pulling his quilt up to my chin, trying to breathe in the last trace of his scent. Exhaustion washed over me, a deep, pulling tide, and I fell asleep.
I was woken hours later by a rhythmic rocking. I opened my eyes, my mind thick with sleep.
And saw Ethan and Tessa, kissing, on my son’s bed.
"Ethan," Tessa purred, noticing I was awake. "I thought we were just looking at how to redecorate this room for our little princess. You’re being naughty."
I shot upright. Ethan met my gaze with a defiant smirk and didn't stop kissing her.
Tessa’s eyes gleamed with malice. "Don't be mad, Leah. We just want Leo to get used to the idea of having a little sister. After all, they’ll be growing up together."
Her voice was sickly sweet. "Can’t we all just be one big, happy family?"
They were on my dead son’s bed, defiling the last sacred space I had, and a violent nausea rose in my throat.
Seeing me tremble with rage, Ethan pulled back, not with guilt, but with accusation.
"Leah, I had my assistant check. Leo was never admitted to any hospital for an allergic reaction. Where are you hiding him?"
He scowled. "This has gone far enough. If you keep this up, I swear to God, I will be done with both of you for good."
I couldn't hold it back any longer. A wretched, guttural sound escaped my lips, and I vomited all over them.
Ethan froze. Tessa’s face twisted in disgust, and then, suddenly, she clutched her stomach, her expression contorting in pain.
"Ethan," she gasped. "My stomach… it hurts… it hurts so much…"
Instantly, Ethan was all frantic concern. He scooped her into his arms, knocking me aside as he rushed for the door. "If anything happens to this baby, I’ll make your son pay with his life!" he yelled over his shoulder.
And then I was alone again.
I stood up, took the handle of the suitcase, and walked out of the house.
The sky was still dark. The streets were empty. A cool night wind snaked under my collar, making me shiver. Every step sent a wave of dizziness through me from the blood loss, but I didn't stop.
By the time the sun rose, I had reached the cemetery.
The plot I’d bought for Leo held an empty coffin. I knelt beside it, opened the suitcase, and began to place his favorite things inside, one by one.
When I was finished, only one space remained, a spot for the small box I held in my hands.
I cradled the urn, as if I were holding my son one last time.
"We're going to see the world, baby," I whispered. "And when we’re done, we’ll come back here to rest. Okay?"
At the hospital, Ethan paced anxiously while Tessa underwent a battery of tests. It was only after the doctors confirmed the fetus was unharmed that he finally let himself breathe.
He sank onto a chair outside her room, rubbing his temples. The vomit on his clothes had dried, but the foul smell lingered. Normally, he would have dragged me back by my hair to clean it up, but in that moment, for some reason, he felt a flicker of fear.
He’d seen the empty closets, the packed suitcase. He'd seen the bottomless grief in my eyes.
Just then, Arthur, the long-time family butler who looked after his grandparents, hurried down the hall. Ethan waved a dismissive hand. "Arthur, if you’re here to sell me the same story about my son being dead, you can save your breath. I don’t believe it."
A complicated, sorrowful expression crossed Arthur's face. He gave a slight, formal bow. "Sir, this isn’t about Master Leo. It’s your grandparents. They’ve both been hospitalized with heart trouble. They’re asking for you."
Ethan rushed to the cardiac wing. The second he pushed open the door to his grandfather's room, a water glass flew through the air and shattered against the doorframe.
His grandfather, a breathing mask strapped to his face, glared at him with pure hatred.
"You animal," he rasped, his voice weak but full of venom. "You killed your own son, and you have the nerve to show your face here? Get out!"
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The Son I Never Had