Suicide Watch with the Other Woman's Child

My wife had postpartum depression. The day she stood on the edge of the rooftop, ready to throw herself off, I didn't reach out to pull her back.

Instead, I dragged a five-year-old boy out from behind me, pointed at her, and sneered.

Go on, jump. Do it quickly.

The second you hit the pavement, I'm bringing this boy into our home. He'll take your place.

"He'll live in your house, spend your money, and beat your precious daughter."

On cue, the little boy looked up at me with wide, timid eyes and called me "Daddy."

The dead, hollow look in my wife's eyes instantly erupted into a blazing fire of pure fury.

She climbed back over the safety railing, stormed over to me, and slapped me across the face with everything she had.

"Robert! You absolute monster! I'll go to hell before I let some bastard child take over my home!"

She packed up our baby daughter and left for her parents' house. For the first time in six months, she had fire in her eyes.

I touched my stinging, hot cheek and stood in the cold wind, laughing out loud.

But the moment her taxi disappeared around the corner, the smile melted off my face.

A sudden surge of metallic heat rushed up my throat. I doubled over, clutching my chest as a violent cough racked my body.

A small hand reached up, offering me a crumpled tissue. Nick patted my back gently.

"Mr. Robert, did I do good? Did I sound like a real actor?"

I took the tissue, wiping the blood from my lips, and squeezed it tight in my fist.

"You did great, Nick. Better than an Oscar winner."

Nick looked toward the empty railing, his brow furrowing. "But the lady... she looked like she really wanted to jump."

My heart squeezed, a pain so sharp it stole the air from my lungs.

She did. Ten minutes ago, half of her body was already dangling over the edge.

Those beautiful, bright eyes of hers had been completely empty. She couldn't even hear our daughter crying in her bassinet inside.

The psychiatrist's words echoed in my mind: Unless she experiences a massive emotional shock, whether it is love or hate, something to trigger her survival instinct, she won't make it.

My love could no longer save her.

For the past six months, I had knelt on the floor, begging her to eat a single bite of food. I had held her through sleepless nights, but she only wept, staring into the void.

And I was running out of time.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the crumpled medical report. Late-stage pancreatic cancer.

I was going to die. How could a dying man use love to save someone who wanted to join the dead?

If I died while she was still in that state, she would surely follow me without hesitation.

So, it had to be hate.

A deep, burning hatred was the only thing that could force her to survive, to fight for revenge.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

"Miss Ward, yes, I've transferred the funds. Proceed with the plan."

I hung up and looked at the lock screen photo of Grace. It was taken right after our wedding, her eyes curved into beautiful, happy crescents.

Grace, please don't hate me.

If keeping you alive means sending me to hell, I'll gladly burn.

When I got back, the house was dead silent.

I marched straight into the nursery.

The pink wallpaper, the white wooden crib, the drawers stuffed with tiny clothes, every single thing in this room had been chosen by her hand. It was the sanctuary of her motherhood.

And it was the first place I had to destroy.

I dismantled the crib, tore down the pastel wallpaper, and stuffed the baby clothes into heavy black trash bags. Then, I took the action figures, toy trucks, and plastic robots Nick had brought and scattered them across the floor.

The delicate nursery was gone, replaced by a messy boy's playroom.

Standing in the doorway of the ruined room, my chest throbbed with a suffocating pain. But I forced my hands to stop shaking long enough to snap a picture and post it to my social media feed.

The caption read: Finally, no more sickeningly sweet pink stuff. Welcome to your new playroom, son! Go wild!

My fingers trembled as I hit post.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a bank alert. Grace had just transferred exactly half of our joint savings into a private account.

I stared at the screen, tears spilling over my cheeks as a laugh escaped my throat.

That's my girl, Grace.

She was fighting back. She was protecting what was hers.

That was her survival instinct kicking in.

She could take every penny to buy a weapon to kill me, as long as she stayed off that rooftop.

Suddenly, a heavy pounding rattled the front door.

I wiped my face, letting my expression freeze into a cold, arrogant sneer.

I opened the door, ready to deliver another cruel insult, but stopped. Three police officers in uniform stood on the landing.

"Robert Sinclair? We received a domestic abuse report. You need to come with us to the station."

She had called the police.

The quiet, fragile Grace who used to hide under the covers and cry had learned to use the law to strike back at me.

Good.

Beautifully done.

I calmly held out my hands to be cuffed, silently cheering for her in the dark.

Without any physical injuries or medical reports, I kept my story simple, calling it a heated domestic argument. The officers gave me a stern warning and released me after a few hours.

When I unlocked the front door, the apartment was fully lit.

Grace sat on the living room sofa, holding our baby daughter Emma. Her older brother, Thomas, stood beside her, his face dark with fury.

Nick was sitting on the rug, playing with a toy car, though the tension in the room was thick enough to cut.

Grace raised her head, her eyes shot through with red veins. She stared at me, her gaze cold enough to freeze water.

I kicked off my shoes, picked Nick up, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Hey there, buddy. Still awake? Did you miss Daddy?"

Nick wrapped his arms around my neck, executing his role perfectly. "Daddy, can we get pizza tomorrow?"

"Of course! The biggest, most expensive pizza in town!"

Thomass face turned purple. He lunged forward, ready to swing. "Robert! You absolute piece of garbage! Your wife gave birth barely six months ago, and you bring your bastard into her home?!"

I sidestepped his fist, letting out a mockery of a laugh.

"Thomas, watch your mouth. What do you mean, bastard? This is the heir to my family name!"

"Besides, it's not my fault Grace's body couldn't even produce a son. I had to secure my legacy somehow, didn't I?"

Grace began to shake violently. She handed Emma to her brother and bolted toward the nursery.

A few seconds later, a bloodcurdling scream echoed from the room.

She had seen the trash bags of baby clothes. She had seen the broken crib.

"Robert!!!"

She charged out of the room, throwing herself at me, her nails raking across my cheek.

A sharp sting flared across my face.

But that physical pain was a relief. It was a distraction from the agony inside.

I grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back.

Her back hit the entryway cabinet with a dull thud.

My heart stopped. My hand instinctively twitched, wanting to reach out and catch her, but I forced my arm to stay down. Instead, I pointed a finger at her and sneered.

"You crazy bitch! You dare touch me?"

"That slap just cost you every single penny of child support I was planning to throw your way!"

"If you're going to stay here, you learn your place!"

"You want a divorce? Fine! Go ahead and sue me! You'll leave this house with nothing, and the kid stays with me!"

Grace clutched her bruised shoulder, panting heavily. She raised a hand to stop her brother from lunging at me again, using the cabinet to support herself as she stood tall.

The wild, screaming rage in her eyes slowly hardened into a cold, unbreakable steel.

"Thomas, go home," she said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Grace! How can you stay here with this monster? Pack your things and come with me!"

"I'm not leaving." She stared directly into my eyes, speaking each word with deadly precision. "This is my home. I paid for half of this apartment. If I walk out now, I'm just clearing the way for this trash and his whore."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I am going to stay right here, and I am going to watch the universe tear you to pieces."

Thomas couldn't convince her. With a few final curses directed at me, he took his coat and left.

The moment the front door clicked shut, Grace took Emma from the stroller, walked into the guest room, and locked the door behind her.

Hearing the lock slide into place, my chest tightened.

She was staying.

For the sake of her daughter and her own pride, she had chosen to fight. And as long as she was willing to fight, she wouldn't try to die.

Late that night, I locked myself in the master bathroom, kneeling over the toilet bowl.

My stomach twisted in agonizing knots, the brutal reality of the chemotherapy and the cancer spreading through my abdomen.

I flushed away the crimson fluid, staring at the ghost looking back at me in the mirror. Sunken cheeks, dark hollows under my eyes. I looked like a corpse.

Through the thin wall, I could hear her muffled, suffocating sobs.

I pressed my forehead against the cold bathroom tiles, tapping my head against them until the skin broke and bled, desperate to let the physical pain drown out the screaming guilt in my mind.

Don't cry, Grace. Please, save your tears.

Hate me. Want to destroy me. That is the only way you'll have the strength to live.

The next morning, the living room was a disaster zone.

Nicks expensive new toys were completely ruined, his plastic action figures smashed and piled high in the trash bin.

Grace sat at the table, quietly feeding Emma some formula. She didn't even look up when I walked in.

"I cleaned up some of the trash around here," she said, her tone light and conversational. "From now on, if I see any of that bastard's things in my sight, they go straight into the garbage."

I looked at her tired but stubborn face, a smile almost breaking through my mask.

Instead, I kicked the trash bin over, sending the broken toys scattering across the floor.

"Grace, do you have a death wish?" I barked. "Clearly, you have too much free time on your hands!"

"Since you love cleaning so much, you're the maid now. You do all the housework."

"And if my son isn't fed and cared for perfectly, you won't see a single cent of allowance!"

Grace finally looked up, her lips curving into a dry, mocking smile.

"Robert, you think you can control me with a few dollars?"

"Just wait."

Later that morning, Grace put on a tailored trench coat, applied a light layer of makeup, and walked out the door.

She was going to meet with a divorce lawyer, and she was looking for a job.

My Grace was finally baring her teeth to survive.

But finding a job after a long gap and during a transition period wasn't easy. It wasn't enough to turn her into iron.

I needed to add more fuel to the fire.

And that fuels name was Gwen.

When Grace walked through the door that evening, she froze.

Gwen was lounging on the living room sofa, wearing Grace's favorite silk robe while applying a face mask, her bare feet propped up on our mahogany coffee table.

Nick was riding on my shoulders as I chased him around the room, laughing loudly.

The color drained from Grace's face, her leather handbag slipping from her fingers and hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.

That silk robe was the one she had bought for our honeymoon, a piece she cherished like a treasure. And now, a strange woman was wearing it.

Gwen peered up from her mask, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Oh, is the wife back?"

"Sorry about the robe, sweetie. I needed something to wear."

"Though, looking at how much your figure has stretched out, I doubt you could even fit into this anymore anyway."

Graces eyes locked onto Gwen. Before anyone could react, she stormed over, grabbed Gwen by her styled hair, and dragged her off the sofa.

"Get out! Get the hell out of my house!"

"Who gave you permission to touch my things? Take it off!"

Gwen let out a dramatic shriek, deliberately falling into my arms as she began to sob. "Robert! Look at her! She's completely insane!"

I pushed Grace away, standing firmly in front of Gwen.

"Grace! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"This is Gwen. She's going to be the new lady of this house. We're all going to be living under the same roof from now on, so you better start showing her some respect!"

Grace stared at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"The new lady?"

"Robert, we aren't even divorced! You dare bring your mistress into our home?"

I let out a harsh laugh, pulling out my phone. I deliberately tapped the screen to initiate a bank transfer.

The automated voice on the speaker announced: Transfer of fifty-two thousand dollars to Gwen Ward completed.

When Emma was born, Grace had suffered from severe postpartum hemorrhaging, and she had hesitated for hours before asking me to spend a few hundred dollars on her recovery medication. And now, I had just casually handed fifty-two thousand dollars to another woman.

I wrapped my arm around Gwen's waist, looking down at Grace.

"That's some pocket money for Gwen, and child support for Nick."

"You kept complaining about me holding back money? See this? I have plenty of cash. I just don't want to waste it on you."

"That's what happens when you can't even give me a son."

Grace stared at the transfer confirmation, tears pooling in her eyes. But she forced them back, refusing to let them fall.

She turned around and marched into the study.

A moment later, the hum of the printer started.

She was printing her resume. And she was printing her divorce petition.

Over the next few weeks, the torment continued. Gwen monopolized the bathroom, dumped out Grace's skincare products, and blasted the television at all hours.

And I took Gwen's side every single time, without exception.

Grace lived like a ghost in her own home, but she didn't cry again. Her eyes grew colder, her movements sharper, and her resolve harder.

Secretly, I was working behind the scenes. I called in favors from old business associates to ensure she got job interviews, quietly clearing the obstacles from her path. I was paving the way for her escape.

One weekend, Nick snatched a small stuffed tiger from Emmas hands, the toy she used to soothe herself to sleep.

Emma burst into a loud, frantic wail.

Annoyed by the noise, Nick grabbed Emma's baby bottle and smashed it onto the floor.

"Stop crying, you worthless girl!"

Seeing this, Grace snapped. She rushed forward, shoved Nick to the ground, and slapped him hard across the face.

Nick gasped in shock, and Gwen let out a piercing scream, lunging forward. "You dared to touch my son? I'll kill you!"

The two women began to claw at each other.

I stepped in, shielding Gwen, and swung my hand back, striking Grace hard across the face.

Crack.

The room fell into a dead silence.

Grace stumbled back, her hand clutching her cheek, which was already swelling into a bright red welt.

The very last trace of affection in her eyes died in that instant.

"Robert."

"That slap just ended everything we ever had."

"From this day on, you are not my husband. You are my worst enemy."

I looked into her dead eyes, swallowing down the lump of raw grief in my throat as I spat out my rehearsed venom.

"What we had?"

"You think you deserve to talk about that?"

"Since you want to lay hands on my son, don't expect me to play nice."

"Take your useless daughter and get the hell back to your room!"

"If I ever see you touch Nick again, I'll make sure you regret it!"

Grace gave me one final look, cold and hollow, before picking up Emma and retreating to her room.

That night, I kept my hand submerged in a basin of ice water to stop the shaking. But in my heart, I knew it was worth it.