After the Betrayal: A Second Life

One year after menopause, my period came back.

My best friend said this wasn't normal and told me to get to the hospital immediately.

The test results were covered in dense data I couldn't understand.

The doctor stared at the report for a long time, then suddenly looked up and asked me, Is your husband here?

I said he was waiting outside.

The doctor said, "Have him come in. There are some things I need to tell him directly."

I panicked. "Doctor, is it some kind of disease? You can just tell me."

The doctor shook her head. "This matterhe needs to know."

After my husband went in, the door closed.

I pressed my ear against it and heard the doctor's first sentence: "Your wife's condition is very unusual..."

I'm forty-five years old.

I've always been healthy.

One year after menopause, I started bleeding again.

Not much, but bright red.

My heart sank.

My best friend Lily said this was called postmenopausal bleeding, and it wasn't good. She told me to get to the hospital right away.

I didn't dare delay. The next day, I had my husband Marcus accompany me to City First Hospital.

I got an appointment with a specialist.

After a series of tests, it was already afternoon.

I sat in the gynecology director's office holding a stack of reports, my heart pounding with anxiety.

The smell of disinfectant in the office was so strong it was suffocating.

Marcus sat next to me, his hand gripping mine.

His palm was hot and sweaty.

I knew he was even more nervous than I was.

The doctor was a woman in her fifties, Director Wilson.

She took my test reports and examined them one by one, extremely slowly and carefully.

Her brow was furrowed from the start.

My heart sank along with her expression, bit by bit.

Was it some terrible disease?

Cancer?

I didn't dare think about it.

My son had just started college. I hadn't seen him settle down yet.

If I died, what would happen to this family?

Marcus felt my trembling and squeezed my hand hard.

"Don't be scared. It'll be okay," he said in a low voice.

His words didn't help.

My fear was like vines, growing wildly from the bottom of my heart and up, wrapping around my throat.

Finally, Director Wilson put down the reports.

She pushed up her glasses and looked past me at Marcus.

"You're her husband?"

Marcus nodded quickly. "Yes, I am."

Director Wilson's expression was complicatedsympathetic and grave.

"Youcome with me for a moment."

She pointed to the inner office.

I froze.

Marcus froze too.

"Doctor," I spoke first, my voice trembling, "is my illness very serious? Just tell me directly. I can handle it."

Director Wilson shook her head.

Her gaze remained fixed on Marcus's face.

"There are some things I need to discuss with your husband first."

"Why?" I grew anxious. "It's my own body. Why can't I know?"

Marcus also said, "Director Wilson, just say what you need to say. We're husband and wife. There's nothing we can't hear together."

Director Wilson's expression didn't soften at all.

She stood up, her tone brooking no argument.

"You come in first."

She walked into the inner office first, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Marcus glanced at me, his eyes full of reassurance.

"Don't worry. I'll go in and ask. It's probably just some things men need to pay attention to... about cooperating with treatment."

He stood up and followed her in.

The office door closed in front of me with a soft click.

My heart was shut into an airtight box along with that soft sound.

Fear and anxiety grew wildly in the darkness.

What kind of illness was it that they couldn't tell me directly?

Why did they need to tell my husband first, to prepare him mentally?

I couldn't sit still anymore.

I walked to that door and pressed my ear against it.

The door was thick with good soundproofing.

I couldn't hear anything clearly.

I could only hear Director Wilson's muffled voice, as if through a layer of water.

I was anxious like an ant on a hot pan, sweating all over.

I pressed my ear closer, straining with all my might to make out the words.

Suddenly, Director Wilson's tone seemed to rise a little.

One fragmented sentence, like a needle, pierced through the door and into my ear.

"...your wife's condition... is very unusual..."

Unusual?

What did that mean?

My mind went blank with a buzzing sound.

All kinds of terrible guesses flooded in like a tide.

Had I contracted some extremely rare terminal illness?

Before I could process that sentence, the office door suddenly opened from inside.

I stumbled and nearly fell.

Marcus stood in the doorway, his face deathly pale, his eyes hollow.

He looked at me like I was a stranger.

I had never seen that look before.

It wasn't concern or worry, but a mix of shock, absurdity, and... a trace of indescribable resentment.

His look made my skin crawl.

"Marcus, what did the doctor say? What's wrong with me?" I grabbed his arm and asked urgently.

He didn't answer.

He just looked at me, his lips moving but making no sound.

His arm was rigid.

Director Wilson came out from behind him, glanced at me, and sighed.

"Your husband will tell you."

"Go home."

Marcus seemed to have lost his soul, turning mechanically.

He grabbed my wrist with surprising force.

"Let's go."

Just one word, cold and stiff.

He dragged me out, making me stumble.

My mind was completely in chaos.

This wasn't how a husband should react after learning his wife had a serious illness.

What was going on?

The drive home from the hospital felt extraordinarily long.

Marcus didn't say a word.

He drove with his eyes fixed straight ahead.

The street scenes outside the window flew backward rapidly, like a silent movie.

The air in the car was so oppressive it felt like it was solidifying.

I sat in the passenger seat, wanting to speak several times but swallowing the words back.

His profile was tense, his jawline rigid like stone.

I'd known him for over twenty years and had never seen him like this.

We'd been together since college, through marriage, and our son was already eighteen.

He'd always been a gentle, responsible man.

No matter how serious the problem, he would shoulder it himself and never let me worry.

But today, he was completely abnormal.

That coldness that emanated from his bones made me feel cold to my core.

"Marcus," I finally couldn't help it and called to him softly.

No response, as if he hadn't heard.

"What exactly did the doctor tell you?" I raised my voice.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

"Nothing."

He said.

His voice sounded like it was squeezed through his teeth.

"Nothing?" I raised my volume. "Then why did she call you in alone? Why do you look like that?"

"Why are you looking at me like I'm your enemy?"

A series of questions shot at him like bullets.

The car suddenly swerved.

He seemed to have hit the brake, then quickly released it.

"Diana," he called me by my full name. "Can you just be quiet for a moment?"

My heart was pierced by those words.

In all our years of marriage, he'd never called me that.

He always called me "Di" or "honey."

"Marcus, you have to tell me," my attitude hardened too. "It's my body. I have the right to know."

He took a deep breath, as if trying desperately to suppress something.

"The doctor said it's just ordinary hormonal imbalance."

"Bleeding after menopause is a common phenomenon. Nothing serious."

"Just rest and don't overthink things."

He spoke quickly and smoothly, as if reciting lines he'd prepared beforehand.

I didn't believe him.

Not a single word.

If it was just hormones, why would Director Wilson be so grave?

Why would she need to call him in alone and say the "condition was unusual"?

He was treating me like a fool.

"You're lying," I said coldly.

He suddenly turned his head and looked at me.

That glance was full of anger and irritation.

"I'm lying?"

"Diana, do you think your life is too peaceful? Do you have to create drama?"

"The doctor said nothing's wrong. What more do you want?"

His yelling stunned me.

Tears welled up despite my efforts to hold them back.

I wasn't creating drama.

I was just scared.

I just wanted to know the truth.

But he treated my fear as unreasonable nonsense.

My heart turned completely cold in that instant.

I turned my head to look out the window and said nothing more.

Tears silently slid down my cheeks.

The rest of the drive was deathly silent.

When we got home, he threw his car keys on the entryway table and walked straight into the study.

With a bang, he shut the door.

I stood alone in the empty living room, feeling ice cold all over.

This home where I'd lived for twenty years suddenly felt utterly foreign.

That evening, I made dinner.

All his favorite dishes.

I waited at the dining table for a long time, but he never came out of the study.

I knocked on the door.

"Marcus, dinner's ready."

"Not eating. No appetite."

His voice came through the door, muffled and impatient.

My hand stopped on the doorknob and stayed there for a long time.

That night, we slept in separate rooms.

This was the first time we'd slept apart since our marriage, aside from business trips.

I lay on the big empty bed, eyes open, sleepless all night.

I replayed everything that had happened that day over and over.

Director Wilson's expression.

Marcus's look.

That closed door.

That phrase "very unusual."

Everything told me that things were far from simple.

Marcus was lying to me.

He was hiding a huge secret.

What was this secret?

Late at night, just as I was about to fall asleep, I heard the master bedroom door open.

I immediately held my breath and closed my eyes.

I felt Marcus walk in and stand by the bed.

He stood there for a very long time.

I could feel his gaze scanning my face like a searchlight.

That gaze no longer held its usual warmth, only scrutiny and coldness.

My heart pounded so fast it was about to leap from my chest.

What was he looking at?

What did he want to do?

Finally, he turned and left.

I heard the balcony door being pulled open softly.

After a while, I quietly got out of bed and walked to the bedroom door, looking out through the crack.

Marcus stood on the balcony with his back to me.

He was on the phone.

The night was quiet, and though his voice was low, I could still hear.

He seemed to be arguing with someone, his tone full of irritation and helplessness.

"...How was I supposed to know this would happen?"

"..."

"Don't panic!"

"..."

"I said, let me figure something out!"

"..."

Suddenly, as if he couldn't take it anymore, he growled quietly.

"How could she at this time..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but those unfinished words were like a sledgehammer, pounding hard on my heart.

She?

Which "she"?

Who was this "she" Marcus was talking about?

That sentence was like a poisoned thorn lodged in my heart, festering all night.

The next morning when Marcus got up, I was already sitting on the living room sofa.

I hadn't slept all night. My eyes were full of bloodshot veins.

When he saw me, he froze, his eyes somewhat evasive.

"Up so early?"

He walked over, seeming to want to say something.

I ignored him and walked straight into the bathroom.

In the mirror, I looked haggard with dark circles under my eyes, like a ghost.

In just one day, I'd been tormented into this state.

I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face over and over.

I needed to be clearheaded.

I couldn't just sit and wait anymore. I couldn't let him keep brushing me off with lies.

I had to find the answers myself.

Coming out of the bathroom, Marcus had already changed and was preparing to leave.

"I have an early meeting at the office today."

He picked up his briefcase, didn't even look at me, and hurriedly changed his shoes.

"Wait a minute," I called out to him.

He stopped and looked back at me.

"Who were you calling on the balcony last night?" I asked point-blank.

His expression changed instantly.

A flash of panic crossed his eyes but was quickly covered up.

"Work stuff," he said. "A project ran into some problems."

"Really?" I stared into his eyes. "Which project manager is named 'she'?"

Marcus froze completely.

His lips moved but couldn't form a sentence.

"Diana," he finally spoke, his tone carrying a hint of pleading, "can you stop asking?"

"I'm begging you."

"Some things are better not knowing."

That sentence completely confirmed my suspicions.

He was having an affair.

That so-called "she" was his mistress.

Something was wrong with my bodyI might have a serious illnessso he was anxious to cut ties with his mistress?

Or was my illness related to that woman?

In an instant, countless melodramatic scenarios played out in my mind.

My heart felt like it was soaked in ice water, both cold and painful.

"Marcus," I looked at him and said word by word, "we're done."

With that, I stopped looking at him, turned and walked back to the bedroom, and closed the door.

I heard him stand outside the door for a while, then came a heavy sigh and the sound of the door closing as he left.

I was alone in the house again.

This time, I didn't cry.

Tears couldn't solve any problems.

I needed evidence.

I needed to know what had really happened.

My gaze fell on the nightstand.

There lay Marcus's backup phone.

He had two phones, one for work and one personal.

He never left his work phone behind, but he didn't use this personal one much and sometimes forgot it at home.

My heartbeat began to accelerate.

This was an opportunity.

I picked up that phone.

It had a password.

A four-digit pattern lock.

I took a deep breath and started trying.

Our wedding anniversary? No.

His birthday? No.

My birthday? No.

Our son's birthday?

I traced our son's birthdate on the screen with my finger.

Clickthe phone unlocked.

My heart raced.

I opened the call log.

Recent calls were all from friends and family.

He must have used his work phone for last night's call.

I opened his Snapchat.

His Snapchat was clean without many chat logs.

No pinned contacts, no suspicious female profile pictures.

Had I guessed wrong?

Unwilling to give up, I opened the browser.

Search history.

When I saw the recent search entries, my breathing stopped instantly.

My fingers began to tremble uncontrollably.

There, several lines were clearly displayed:

"Can a man who had a vasectomy still get a woman pregnant?"

"What's the success rate of vasectomy reversal?"

"If a wife gets pregnant after a husband's vasectomy, whose child is it?"

"What materials are needed for a paternity test?"

"How does the law handle illegitimate children?"

One after another, sentence after sentence, like sharp knives stabbing into my eyes.

Vasectomy?

Pregnancy?

Paternity test?

Marcus had gotten a vasectomy over ten years ago, after our son was born.

It was our joint decision.

He said he felt bad for me and didn't want me to suffer through childbirth again.

I was moved to tears at the time, thinking I'd married the best man in the world.

For all these years, we'd been careful about contraception.

But now...

My hand involuntarily moved to my lower abdomen.

Postmenopausal bleeding...

Director Wilson's grave expression...

That phrase "very unusual"...

Marcus's pale face and resentful look...

An absurd thought that I didn't dare believe sprouted in my mind like a seed, growing wildly.