Married to My Friend's Wife

When my best friend died, his wife, Mia Lewis, was eight months pregnant.

Mia said she didn't want her baby growing up without a father.

I owed my best friend my life. He saved me, literally pulled me from death's door. So I stepped up, marrying Mia and raising their son as my own.

Mia loved her career, so I quit mine. Traded my job for diapers and school runs. For seven whole years, I cooked, cleaned, folded laundry, and handled the housework. Rain or shine, sickness or health, I was there—every single day.

Mia, though? She stayed cold, distant. Her warmth only surfaced in the bedroom—and even then, it was a flicker, never a flame. Just soft sighs and breathy murmurs, like she was playing a role she couldn't wait to finish. Afterward, she would quietly check the condom, as if she couldn't trust me.

Then came New Year's Eve.

A snap. A tear. A broken condom.

Her fury struck like a thunderclap. She locked me out on the balcony, left me standing in the freezing rain, soaked to the bone as the wind howled like a wounded beast.

Teeth chattering, I shivered as I watched the door like a dog, waiting to be let in.

Then I saw him. Our boy, Ethan Bailey. Six years old. My son, at least in name.

He came running with an umbrella in his hand.

For a second, my heart leapt. 'Maybe, just maybe…'

But he didn't even look at me. Just walked past in silence and handed the umbrella to the nanny heading out.

Right then and there, something inside me cracked.

I knew it was time to go.

Best To Rip The Band-Aid Off

When my best friend died, his wife, Mia Lewis, was eight months pregnant.

Mia said she didn't want her child growing up without a father.

I owed my best friend my life. He saved me, literally pulled me from death's door. So, I stepped up, marrying Mia and raising their son as my own.

Mia loved her career, so I quit mine. Traded my job for diapers and school runs. For seven whole years, I cooked, cleaned, folded laundry, and handled the housework. Rain or shine, sickness or health, I was there—every single day.

Mia, though? She stayed cold, distant. Her warmth only surfaced in the bedroom—and even then, it was a flicker, never a flame. Just soft sighs and breathy murmurs, like she was playing a role she couldn't wait to finish. Afterward, she would quietly check the condom, as if she couldn't trust me.

Then came New Year's Eve.

A snap. A tear. A broken condom.

Her fury struck like a thunderclap. She locked me out on the balcony and left me standing in the freezing rain, soaked to the bone as the wind howled like a wounded beast.

Teeth chattering, I shivered as I watched the door like a dog, waiting to be let in.

Then, I saw him. Our boy, Ethan Bailey.