My Husband Made Me Miscarry Nine Times

My name is Jennifer Jones. In the fifth year of my marriage to Earl Scott, I lay on the cold operating table, enduring my ninth miscarriage. As the anesthesia slowly took hold, I fixed my gaze on the mottled water stains on the ceiling, suddenly recalling how he had proposed to me five years before. At that moment, there was a light in his eyes as he promised to make me the happiest woman in the world. Now, I see it was nothing but a meticulously crafted lie. The first time I became pregnant, my hand shook as I held the pregnancy test, and I ran home, elated, to tell Earl Scott. He was on the phone in the study. When he saw me enter, he hurriedly said, "Got it," and hung up. "Jennifer," he said, frowning, his voice firm and unyielding, "We can't keep this child. My career is just beginning." I was stunned, words lodged in my throat, unable to speak. It was our first child—how could he dismiss it so lightly? Before I could respond, he had already arranged the hospital and sent me there the following day. After the surgery, I lay on the hospital bed while he stood at my side, peeling an apple with a hint of impatience in his voice: "Don't throw a tantrum. There will be plenty of chances in the future." I closed my eyes, tears silently soaking the pillowcase. From then on, pregnancy and miscarriage became a cruel, unending cycle within my marriage. Each time I carefully told him I was pregnant, I was met only with his cold indifference and calculated arrangements. My mother-in-law, Rosalind Lewis, was even more relentless—after every surgery, she would arrive with tonics, her words laced with thinly veiled blame. "Jennifer, if you can't even have a child, there will be plenty of women vying for the position of young madam of the Scott Family." I clenched my fists tightly, my nails digging into my palms, but I could only swallow my pain in silence. After my ninth miscarriage, the day I was discharged from the hospital happened to be our fifth wedding anniversary. Earl Scott came to pick me up, a delicate gift box resting on the front passenger seat. "Happy anniversary." He handed me the gift box, his tone as flat as if commenting on the weather. I opened it to find a necklace, gaudy and ostentatious in design. I know this is absolutely not the style he would choose. The car entered the villa district, and from afar, I saw a stranger standing at the gate of the Scott Family Villa. She wore a loose dress, her hand gently resting on her abdomen, a tender smile playing on her lips. Seeing Earl Scott's car, she hurried forward to meet him. "Earl, you're back." Her voice was soft and delicate, but her eyes bore a defiant challenge toward me. Earl stepped out of the car and instinctively slipped his arm around her waist, the intimacy of his gesture painfully obvious. "Jennifer, let me introduce you—this is Fiona Dawson." He paused, then added, "She is carrying my child." I sat inside the car, feeling as though all the blood in my body had frozen. So that's how it is. It's not that he doesn't want children; he just doesn't want the child I carry. Fiona Dawson walked to the car, bent down to look at me, a triumphant smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Mrs. Jones, I've long heard of your name." She caressed her belly. "Earl said this child is his first son; he is eagerly awaiting it." I said nothing, simply watched her quietly. "Do you know?" Fiona Dawson leaned in slightly, her voice low but unmistakably clear. "Earl loves it most when I wear white dresses; he says I look like an angel." "Last time we went to the seaside, he drew a heart on the sand for me, promising to love me forever." She rambled on about their intimate moments, each word a blade piercing straight through my heart.