I Left the Man Who Only Wanted My Womb

When Jonathan Shaw brought his seventh pregnant mistress to me for delivery, his friends started betting on how long it would take for me to break down. But even as the baby's cries echoed through the delivery room, they never heard me lose control. "Come on, this is the seventh one. Are you sure she won't turn on you this time?" Jonathan shrugged: "She can't conceive, and I need to carry on the family line. Since I'll have to have children with other women to inherit the estate sooner or later, I might as well have a few more now and let her get used to it early." The moment he finished speaking, I walked out holding the newborn. Following standard procedure, I announced: "Congratulations. Seven pounds six ounces. Mother and baby are healthy." Jonathan smiled and took the baby from my arms. Then, he handed me a divorce agreement. "Sign it," he commanded. "Just a formality to appease her. She won't have a second child unless I divorce you first. Once the second one is born, we'll have eight." I had played along with this act seven times. This time, I signed without hesitation. Jonathan seemed to have forgotten one thing—it wasn't that I couldn't conceive, just that our genes were incompatible. If I wanted a child, I could simply find someone else. Why would I spend my entire life raising other people's children just to keep this marriage alive?