In Bed With Another Woman After Our Daughter's Funeral

Ethan Sinclair and I had been married for five years—and for those same five years, his beloved "first love" had also carried the title of Mrs. Sinclair in his heart.

I endured everything in silence for the sake of our daughter, Lily Sinclair. I swallowed every indignity, every cold shoulder, every night he never came home.

Until that day—when Lily, innocent and full of longing, called him "dad" in front of a crowd. The words seemed to burn through the illusion he clung to, and his first love was left in tears.

He was furious. But not to himself. Not at the twisted arrangement he forced us into. No—he turned his wrath on our daughter.

To punish her, he tied her to a highspeed jump machine at a party, knowing full well about her congenital heart disease.

I rushed over and dropped to my knees, tears streaming down my face as I begged, “Lily can’t take this. Please, punish me instead. If you have resentment, take it out on me—just not her!”

But he stared down at me with eyes as cold as frost.

“Children aren’t that fragile,” he scoffed. “It’s just a ride. She won’t die.”

But she did.

That night, I held my baby girl’s still, lifeless body in my arms. Her lips were pale, her little fingers were already cold. I couldn't even scream—I just crumbled in silence, consumed by the emptiness left behind.

And where was he? Celebrating.

He threw a lavish birthday party for his first love, naming a star after her for the occasion. Photos of the night splashed across social media: candles, roses, diamonds, and the woman who had taken everything from me.

When my motherinlaw arrived the next morning, I was sitting in a daze, cradling Lily’s urn.

“Mom,” I whispered, voice hoarse from crying, “I don’t want anything anymore. I just want to leave. Please… help me.”

——

She froze, her eyes welling with tears. “Hannah, I know your heart is broken over Lily, but Ethan—”

She didn’t get to finish. Two nurses walking past stopped to talk in excitement.

“Did you see the news? Mr. Sinclair bought a star and named it after his wife for her birthday. It’s so romantic!”

“I know! And he said, ‘If she’s happy, I’d give her my life.’ God, if I ever met a man like that, I could die happy!”

Their words pierced through me like knives. My grief, which had only just quieted, came flooding back.

How absurd.

After five years of marriage, Ethan never acknowledged me or our daughter publicly.

He forbade Lily from calling him "dad."

Outside of his immediate family, no one even knew he had a wife, let alone a child.

My motherinlaw’s chest rose and fell rapidly as her rage mounted.

She turned to me just as I began to weep silently. Her fury melted into heartache.

She knelt beside me and gently took my hands, chilled to the bone.

Tears welled in her eyes, but the words she wanted to say—words to stop me—never came out.

Instead, she whispered, “Okay, Hannah… Mom will let you go.”

I nodded and stood up, clutching the small white urn to my chest.

Forcing a smile, I said softly, “Thank you, Mom.”

She turned away, wiping her tears quickly. Trying to sound composed, she said, “Once Lily’s funeral is over… then you can go, alright?”

During the five years I was trapped in the Sinclair family, Lily never had the chance to see the world.

I nodded again and made my final request.

“Since he never liked her, I won’t leave her here to burden him. I’ll take her with me when I leave.”

My motherinlaw opened her mouth to protest. She had wanted Lily buried in the Sinclair family cemetery.

But she couldn’t say it—not after everything Ethan had done.

In the end, she only whispered a choked, “Alright.”

Her grief turned to fury. With trembling fingers, she dialed her son’s number.

However, after the call went unanswered, I met only with a robotic message.

Her lips curled in bitter laughter. Still, she didn’t stop.

Finally, five minutes later, the line connected.

“What is it, Mom?”

His voice was hoarse—raspy with desire.

And in the background, a woman’s low moans and muffled laughter echoed clearly.

We were all adults. The moment my motherinlaw heard the sounds on the phone—his husky voice, the faint laughter of another woman—she understood everything.

Her whole body trembled with fury. She could no longer hold it in.

“Ethan, you heartless beast!” she screamed, voice cracking. “You just buried your daughter, and now you’re in bed with another woman? What kind of son are you?”

Her voice rose again, sharper, more broken. “You killed your own child and have the nerve to carry on like nothing happened. If you don’t come home right now, I swear I’ll pretend you were never born!”

The line went dead.

She lowered the phone slowly, hands shaking, breath uneven. All the strength drained from her like air from a punctured balloon. She slumped into the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. When she finally looked at me, tears of guilt clung to her lashes.

“Hannah… I’m sorry. This is all my fault,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I hurt you… and I let him hurt Lily too.”

I didn’t know how to respond. My chest felt hollow.

I had come into the Sinclair family when I was only ten. My parents had died on duty, and the Sinclair family took me in. My motherinlaw and fatherinlaw treated me as their own daughter. And Ethan… he was kind back then.

He was thirteen. I was ten. He didn’t resent me, didn’t call me an outsider. Instead, he welcomed me like a younger sister.

When other kids called me by the names—"orphan," "charity case," "stray girl"—he defended me fiercely.

I still remember him grabbing one of the boys by the collar, yelling, “Who said Hannah Carter has no family? We’re her family! If anyone dares bully her again, they’ll answer to me!”

From that day on, he stuck with me like a shadow. Quiet and watchful, like a silent protector.

Back then, I thought of him as my shield, my big brother, my knight.

But everything changed on my twentieth birthday.

That night, he got drunk and stumbled into my room. I tried to stop him, but I was no match. I gave in, confused, thinking maybe… maybe he cared for me more than I’d realized.

But the next morning shattered that illusion.

He looked at me with disgust, eyes blazing like a cornered beast.

“Hannah,” he spat, gripping my wrist, “how could you be so shameless? Did you seduce me on purpose?!”

I tried to explain—he hadn’t even known what he was doing—but he wouldn’t hear it. He was convinced I had trapped him.

Then, a few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.

I had no money. I went to him quietly, hoping to get help with an abortion. But his parents overheard us talking.

They were furious. They forbade me from ending the pregnancy. Forced him to take responsibility. Forced him to marry me.

His girlfriend, Jessica Monroe, left the country in a rage.

And he never forgave me for that.

He married me, yes. But never once did he treat me like a wife.

He gave me cold shoulders and cutting words. The warm, protective boy I once knew was gone.

And he despised our daughter—Lily.

He refused to let her call him “dad.”

In four years, he never once held her in his arms.

When Jessica returned, he ran back to her like a lost dog, wooed her back from abroad like nothing had happened.

In public, she stood by his side at events, dinners, parties—always as “Mrs. Sinclair.”

While I… I became a ghost. And my daughter, the child he refused to acknowledge, was treated like a stain he wanted erased.

There were times I wanted to leave. To give up. To let him go, and set myself free.

But Lily… she loved him. Yearned for him.

She tried so hard to win his affection, watched his moods closely, and smiled at him even when he ignored her.

I was heartbroken. I begged my motherinlaw for a divorce.

But she shook her head.

“A child needs a whole family,” she said. “If you divorce, think of how much damage that will do to Lily.”

“And Ethan… he does care for you. He just doesn’t realize it yet. When he figures it out, he’ll come around. For my sake… please give him one more chance.”

For Lily, I stayed.

For her, I endured.

Even if I need sleeping pills just to fall asleep each night, I’ve held onto my resolve not to mention divorce again.

My child was the only reason I stayed in the Sinclair family.

But now, he has destroyed even that final thread of hope with his own hands.

After I calmed down, my motherinlaw took me home.

She gently urged me to wash up, rest, and try not to think about anything else.

So I did, as she said, she said—showered, changed, and prepared to sleep.

But when I stepped out of the bathroom, I froze.

Ethan was sitting on the edge of my bed, his face cold and filled with contempt.

“I didn’t expect you to go this far, Hannah,” he said, sneering. “Even using my mother to make me come back? I really underestimated you.”

I knew he was referring to what his mother had said to him.

In the past, I might’ve screamed, argued, or broken down like a madwoman.

Even though he always looked at me like I was mentally unstable, like I disgusted him.

But now, I no longer have the strength to care.

To him, Lily’s death wasn’t a tragedy—it was a relief.

He didn’t mourn her; he felt freed by her absence.

I ignored him completely and walked to the bed, pulling back the quilt.

I never expected that, the moment I touched it, he would suddenly press me down, grabbing my wrist with force.

My body stiffened, heart racing. I started to struggle. “Ethan, let me go!”

He chuckled coldly. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Why pretend now?”

His eyes were devoid of warmth—only cold ridicule lingered in them.

Then, without warning, he leaned in and bit my shoulder.

As he got closer, a faint scent of jasmine drifted toward me.

It wasn’t mine.

It was someone else’s perfume—another woman’s.

Pain seared my shoulder, but worse was the wave of nausea that rose from my chest.

The scent, the force, the humiliation—it was overwhelming.

“Ethan, stop! Let me go!” I cried, struggling harder, pushing him away.

But the more I resisted, the more excited he seemed.

When I felt him begin to tug at my nightgown, my whole body trembled.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted the alarm clock on the bedside table.

In that moment of desperation, I grabbed it, gritted my teeth, and hurled it at him.

It hit his forehead squarely.

He staggered back with a groan of pain.

Clutching the alarm clock in my hand like a weapon, I screamed, voice shaking with fear and fury, “Get out! Get out!”

In the dim light, his expression darkened even further.

His entire presence radiated hostility—something dangerous and suffocating.

“Fine,” he said coldly. “But remember—you’re the one who said this. Don’t come crying to my mom tomorrow saying I didn’t fulfill my ‘husbandly duties.’”

He dragged out the word “husband,” dripping with mockery, like a cruel reminder of how I ended up with him in the first place.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to speak.

He sneered again and finally left.

Only after he was gone did I begin to breathe normally again.

But the tears wouldn’t stop.

They slipped down silently, one after another.

Lily…

Mommy misses you so much.

I cried quietly, remembering her sweet smile, her laugh, her tiny hands wrapped around my fingers.

The next morning, I got up and began packing Lily’s things.

There were so many little dresses she never even got to wear.

Some still had the tags on.

Most were expensive, gifts from my motherinlaw.

It felt wrong to keep them.

So I decided to donate them to children in remote, underprivileged mountain areas—in Lily’s name.

Not long after, I received a message from Jessica—Ethan’s first love.

She sent a photo of a Bultrasound and wrote:

“You couldn’t keep A Nian even with a child. Now I’m pregnant with his baby too. What do you think, Hannah? If I ask him to divorce you, will he say yes right away?”

I stared at the message for a long time.

My heart, surprisingly, felt nothing.

I quietly saved Jessica’s message, but didn’t reply.

Not long after, Ethan saw the donations and messaged me.

“Why did you give away so many skirts? Aren’t those for your daughter?”

I read the message but didn’t respond.

Then he added, “Her birthday is coming up. I’ll have someone send over gifts. Just don’t let her bother me.”

Every year on Lily’s birthday, he’d find some excuse not to come home.

Lily never understood why her father didn’t like her. She’d always tug at my hand, begging me to take her to see him.

I could never resist her soft voice and pleading eyes. So I took her to his company—just so she could catch a glimpse of him from afar.

We never dared to get close. We stood outside, hoping he might notice us.

And he did. A few times.

But there was never a smile—only annoyance and cold indifference in his eyes.

Thinking of how Lily was gone, my heart suddenly tightened.

I picked up my phone and replied, “No. She won’t bother you anymore.”

After that, I didn’t respond to any of his messages.

To my surprise, the man who hated going home actually returned that night.

When he stepped inside and didn’t receive the usual warm welcome, he frowned. “Why are you alone?”

I was sitting on the sofa, carefully placing all of Lily’s photos into a small suitcase.

Hearing his question, my hand paused briefly before I calmly said, “I’m not alone.”

Lily’s urn was still in her room. In my heart, she was still with me.

He assumed the child was asleep and didn’t question it. He casually placed a gift box on the sofa and said indifferently, “Last time was a punishment. Auntie’s generous—she’s not holding a grudge. This is a gift she bought. Take the child to apologize next time.”

His tone was patronizing, like he was doing us a favor.

But I couldn’t understand—was it wrong for a child to call her father?

I looked up at him, cold and composed. “No. I’ll buy whatever Lily wants.”

He scoffed, eyes filled with disdain. “Hannah, everything you eat, use—hasn’t it all come from the Sinclair family?”

His words pierced me like a knife.

Lily was born prematurely and was diagnosed with congenital heart disease right after birth. I gave up my job to care for her.

To avoid asking him for money, I took online freelance work and quietly saved every cent.

By now, I’d saved enough to cover a heart transplant when she came of age.

But she never made it that far.

She left me before she even had the chance to grow up.

My eyes dimmed. I lowered my gaze and said, voice steady, “Don’t worry. I’ll never use your money again.”

We are divorced now. There was nothing between us anymore.

He didn’t believe me. He tossed a secondary card on the coffee table and said with a hint of selfrighteousness, “Whether you need it or not, she’s still part of the Sinclair bloodline. Don’t embarrass the family.”

In five years of marriage, it was the first time he had ever offered me a bank card.

I didn’t know what he was trying to prove, but it no longer mattered.

I didn’t look up. I continued quietly sorting Lily’s belongings.

My silence wasn’t the reaction he expected. He frowned, clearly annoyed.

“Hannah, don’t push it. I’m trying to be civil here, but you—”

Before he could finish, a sudden thought struck me.

I looked up and said flatly, “Be at North Shore Memorial Hall at eight tomorrow morning.”

If I told him that tomorrow was Lily’s funeral, he’d scoff at the timing, call it bad luck, and absolutely refuse to go.

Ethan opened his mouth, about to speak, but his phone rang at that moment.

He glanced at the screen, saw the caller ID, and answered without hesitation. “Jessica, what’s wrong?”

The coldness in his expression disappeared in an instant. His voice, just seconds ago emotionless, turned warm and indulgent.

“Ethan,” Jessica’s soft, spoiled tone came clearly through the receiver, “I have a prenatal checkup tomorrow. Can you come with me?”

He was standing close to me, so I could hear every word she said—so intimate, so familiar, as if they had known each other for a lifetime. It was the kind of tone I used to speak to him with, back when I believed I mattered to him.

Ethan glanced in my direction for a brief second, but there was no guilt in his eyes, only the habitual cold detachment. Then, without missing a beat, he replied, “Okay. Rest well tonight. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow.”

Watching him speak to another woman with such tenderness, I stood still, stunned for a moment. A wave of memories came crashing down.

Back when I was pregnant with Lily, I had hoped—naively—that he would share even a small part of my excitement and nervousness. But he rarely came home. On the few occasions he did, I timidly asked him if he could accompany me to my prenatal checkup, thinking he might at least show some concern for the child.

Instead, he scoffed. “Other women go by themselves. Who do you think you are? A princess?” His tone was sarcastic and sharp. “You act like you’re the heiress of some noble family. Get over yourself.”

That day, his words cut deeper than any knife. But what hurt most wasn’t the insult—it was the contrast. Because not long before, he’d stood proudly behind me in front of others and declared, “She’s the daughterinlaw of the Sinclair family. Anyone who lays a hand on her will be going against the whole Sinclair family. If you want to bully her, be prepared to deal with me.”

I had believed him then, wholeheartedly. I thought I had married someone who would protect me.

But he had forgotten those words. And I had learned the hard way not to remind him.

I didn’t respond. I simply turned and went back into the room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze linger on me. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes, something unsettled—perhaps the vague realization that something precious was slipping through his fingers.

The next morning, my motherinlaw called to ask what time I’d be going to North Shore Memorial Hall.

By then, I was already on the highspeed train, carrying a suitcase filled with Lily’s belongings—her toys, her favorite books, and the clothes she never had a chance to wear.

When my motherinlaw realized I had left, she fell silent for a moment. Then she spoke again, her voice hoarse, barely holding back tears. “Take care of yourself, dear. You may be leaving, but we’re still here for you.”

I thanked her quietly. After we hung up, I removed my SIM card and threw it in the nearest trash bin.

The moment I left the Sinclair family, I knew—I was never going back.

Later that morning, my inlaws arrived at North Shore Memorial Hall dressed in solemn black. My fatherinlaw had rushed back from overseas the moment he heard about Lily’s death, leaving behind his business obligations without hesitation.

His grief was deep, but it was his fury that burned brighter. When he realized Ethan hadn’t shown up, he exploded.

Unable to bear it, he ordered someone to locate his son and stormed off in fury.

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Ethan was still with Jessica, accompanying her for her checkup. He didn’t expect to see his father barge in, face livid with rage.

“Dad?” He stood up, startled. “Why are you here—”

Before he could finish, his father slapped him across the face in full view of the hospital staff and patients.

“You heartless bastard! Your daughter is gone, and on the day of her funeral, you’re here playing house with another woman? Do you even remember you have a wife? A daughter?”

The slap echoed. Ethan’s ears rang, and the world tilted around him.

He blinked, disoriented. “What did you just say? Who... who died?”