The Rich Family’s Son Isn’t Their Own, and a Second Child Turns the Tables

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The green grass over my head stayed lush for thirteen years. I raised her child as my own, and felt my life had been worthwhile.

I married an heiress, but she thought I stuttered.

On our wedding night, she closed her eyes and called out another man's name.

After we married, she secretly took birth control pills, and kept taking them for thirteen years.

The blood type of the son I raised didn't match mine.

The day the paternity test came back, I sat in the hospital corridor all afternoon.

She thought I knew nothing, and was still booking hotel rooms with her lover.

The first time she got pregnant with my child, she deliberately slept with her lover and caused a miscarriage.

I said nothing. I simply took away her phone.

I had surveillance cameras installed at home and hired a caregiver to stay with her around the clock.

When she got pregnant for the second time, I wouldn't even let her go out without me.

The day our daughter was born, I had a paternity test done on the spot.

I slammed thirteen years' worth of evidence in front of her: the birth control pills, the hotel records, and the truth about the miscarriage.

She signed the papers in tears and left with nothing.

When our son learned the truth, he ran away from home and said I wasn't fit to be his father.

She started scavenging for trash, growing so thin she was barely recognizable.

Our six-year-old daughter ran into her at the park and handed her a bottle of water. “Here, Auntie, have some.”

She took the water and burst into tears.

Not long afterward, she was diagnosed with cancer. I paid her medical bills.

It wasn't forgiveness. It was the old saying: a day as husband and wife means a hundred days of gratitude.

The bottle of water was still by her bedside when she died. She hadn't had the heart to drink it.

She cheated on me for thirteen years, and I left her with nothing.

But I won, and I lost, too.