The Vasectomy Heist

Before I died, I discovered Gregory had gotten a vasectomy before our wedding.

He looked at me with feigned remorse and said,

"I know you always wanted children. But Claire already gave me a son, and I promised her that no matter who I married, our estate would go to her child."

"Having another would break that promise."

"You know I keep my word above all else."

Fifty years later, I realized my life had been one cruel joke.

I had lifted him from nothing to power.

He had once held me close, whispering sweet nothings of forever.

Yet none of it mattered compared to a vow he'd made to his first love.

Then—I woke up.

Back on our wedding night.

His breath warm against my ear, he murmured, "Bethany, give me a child. I'll cherish you forever."

A sickening déjà vu washed over me.

He'd said those exact words in my past life, too.

Back then, I had blushed, nodding shyly, my heart swelling with naive hope.

But the bliss lasted mere months before crumbling into chaos.

The morning after our wedding, Gregory's mother cornered me, her smile sharp.

"You'll give me a grandson soon, won't you?"

I understood—Gregory's father was gone, leaving him the sole heir. Their family was old-fashioned. Wanting a child was natural.

And I? I loved children. I tracked my cycles, desperate to conceive.

Yet no matter how hard we tried—no matter what bizarre remedy his mother shoved at me—my womb stayed stubbornly empty.

Over time, her patience soured.

"You could hatch chicks by leaving rocks in a bed, yet your belly won't even give me an egg!"

When Gregory climbed the corporate ladder, she stopped pretending.

"If she can't give you a son, you should take a mistress!"

Tearfully, I confronted Gregory.

He sighed. "Bethany, she's my mother. Try to understand her."

Then, like always, he softened the blow with a bribe.

"Haven't you been eyeing that new handbag? I'll get it for you tomorrow."

A slap, then candy.

I withered under his pity, believing my barrenness was my fault.

Years passed. His mother died. Our marriage mellowed—but my womb stayed silent.

Then, Linda Claire returned.

My old college roommate.

Widowed, with a son in tow.

Foolishly, I pitied them. I even became the boy's godmother, pouring all my stifled love into him.

But on my deathbed—frail, forgotten—I finally saw the truth.

Gregory stood beside Linda, their silver-haired son between them.

His wrinkled face held tenderness—for her.

For me? Only guilt.

"Bethany, I know you wanted children. But Claire gave me a son, and I promised her our estate would go to him."

"Having another would break that promise."

"You know I keep my word above all else."

My entire life—a lie.

The scorn, the suffering—all because he'd sterilized himself before our wedding.

I died choking on rage.

But fate gave me a second chance.

This time, I pushed him away.

Gregory blinked, then chuckled nervously. "What's wrong, Bethany?"

Every inch of him repulsed me now.

Coldly, I asked, "Gregory, if I never gave you a child—would you still cherish me forever?"

He stiffened, then reached for me. "Bethany, that's not what I meant—"

"You love children, don't you? Have one with me."

"But even without one, I'll cherish you. You know I keep my promises."