On our wedding day, we had nothing, weighed down by debt.
My husband, for the purpose of his wife and child, quietly accepted a path full of condescension: secretly sharing the bed of two of the town’s wealthiest women. In exchange, money streamed into our home without end. Within a single year, our leaning shack became a crimson-topped house, with a shiny new motorbike, and our youngest child could study and eat well.
Neighbors gazed at us with jealousy, while I carried both pride and sorrow. Only I knew that behind this “wealth” was a insulting price my husband silently endured.
And so it happened that, exactly one year later, that morning he left home as usual.
I cooked dinner and waited for him, from sunrise until noon.
When the clock struck twelve and he still had not returned, my heart sank and I asked the neighbors to help search for him. When they came back, I was stunned… My husband had been discovered in the mansion of one of those rich women. Rope burns marked his neck, his clothes were disheveled.
Beside him lay a packet of land deeds and a stuffed envelope. The entire town crowded with rumors: the two women, after “using” him, had turned against each other, and my husband had become the victim. But what shattered me most was… inside the envelope, besides cash, there was a rushed note:
“Forgive me, but our son… isn’t only yours.”
My hands shuddered as I opened it, my eyes distorted with tears.
His messy handwriting froze my heart. Each str0ke cut like a knife. Slowly, I understood the hidden meaning: not only was he destr0yed, but he left me with disgrace—that the boy I cherished so deeply might not have been my own bl00-d.
Word spread like fire. Crowds gathered, with pity mingled with scorn.
They wanted to see how I—the wife living on “tainted money”—would face the truth that even my son was born of shame. I clutched him tight to my chest.
He was still honorable, eyes clear and untouched. I stood beside my husband’s coffin, my soul broken apart. For years he endured dishonor for me and the boy; now he departed in disgrace, leaving me an unbearable weight.
That night I lit incense, gazed at his picture, and murmured:
“My love, every sin demands its price. You paid with your life. But the boy is guiltless.
Even if his blood is different, he’s been my son since the day he was born. I will raise him with every bit of my love, so he never repeats our tragedy.”
Outside, gossip and laughter continued. But I knew I had nothing left, except the innocence of my son’s heart.
A year later, I sold the red-roofed house and left that poisonous town behind. We started anew elsewhere. When people asked how I stayed so strong, I only smiled:
“Because I learned this: money can buy roofs and vehicles, but it cannot buy peace.”
And I vowed to live for him as well, to end the life he left behind.
Doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.