The Infertile Wife

EMILY'S POV Wiping away my tears and sniffing back my sobs, I sat in silence, feeling as though I were trapped in limbo between life and death. Downstairs, music and the murmured voices of the wedding guests filled the air. The marriage they had forced upon me was nothing more than my own funeral, held before my time. The sound of the door opening startled me. My father stepped inside, but I didn't even lift my eyes to look at him. Tears continued to stream down my face as he approached with slow, heavy steps and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked beneath his weight. “My daughter…” he murmured. But the moment I finally broke down, shattered beyond repair, I curled deeper into my corner, unable to contain the waves of agony crashing through me. I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to stifle the sobs filling the room, but I couldn't hold them back. I squeezed my eyes shut as the scenes from the previous night came flooding back, poisoning my mind all over again. “Your daughter is useless now!” someone had shouted. “If she can no longer have children, what does it matter if she ends up with a man who can't even get out of bed? Let my son live, even if she has to die in the process!” “I won't let you use my sister as a bargaining chip!” my brother James had roared, confronting Mrs. Patricia, the woman who had never loved me. James tried to move toward her, but I stopped him by grabbing his arm. My father stood motionless as a statue, saying nothing. “How dare you insult my mother!” Michael, my half-brother, had raised his voice as well. Shouts filled the air. Yet amid all the chaos, I knew the final decision rested with me. That was why my father remained silent. “My son loved her, and that's why he kidn*pped her!” Patricia had shrieked, as though that alone justified everything we were being forced to accept. “Emily is no longer fertile. She's worthless now. What does it matter if she marries the Bennets' eldest son? She can't fulfill her duty as a woman anyway!” Those words lodged themselves in my mind like nails driven into flesh. With what little strength I had left, I walked toward the door, my soul in pieces. The weight of their shouting continued to crush me as I descended the stairs. I wanted to run away, but my body refused to obey. Life had never been fair to me, not even when I was a little girl. I lost my mother when I was barely old enough to understand what death meant. Unable to face his grief, my father remarried. Patricia, his new wife, wasted no time revealing her cruelty. I would never forget the day I witnessed her push my mother down the stairs with my own eyes. I screamed the truth, but no one believed me. Only my brother James stood by my side. I was my father's only daughter, the youngest of four siblings. Michael, the eldest, was Patricia's son. Then came James, my only friend, my only confidant. After him came Ethan, another half-brother who destroyed my life in a single night. It all began when the Bennets, our family's longtime enemies, showed up at our house. Their daughter had become pregnant by Ethan, and in response, they demanded an exchange. They arrived in the middle of the night, pounding on our door with a chilling ultimatum: either we accepted their terms, or someone would die. “Give them the girl!” Patricia had said without hesitation. She hadn't even stopped to think. Two years earlier, after months of unexplained pain, a doctor had confirmed what felt like my life sentence: I could never have children. That news should have remained within the walls of our mansion, but Patricia spread it like a juicy piece of gossip. From that day forward, I became known as the defective one. That was the excuse she used to sell me off. When I reached my bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed, completely broken. My supposed defect had become my sentence. Now I was engaged to a man I'd never met, someone who, according to what I'd been told, was the Bennets' eldest son—a man condemned to spend his days bedridden. My tears continued to fall as those cruel words echoed through my mind. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, struggling to gather whatever strength I had left. Suddenly, a knock at the door made me sit up straight. Standing with my head bowed, I clasped my hands in front of me and waited. “My beautiful Emily…” My father's voice was gentle, almost a whisper, as he entered the room. He closed the door behind him and approached with slow steps. When he reached me, he tenderly stroked my hair. My long, waist-length brown hair was a legacy from my mother. I loved it as much as I cherished her memory. When I was little, she would brush it gently, weaving her love into every strand. It was the only thing in this world that still connected me to her. “My most precious daughter…” he murmured as his fingers moved delicately through my hair. He couldn't bring himself to look me in the eyes. His gaze remained fixed on the places his fingers touched, as though he were afraid our eyes might meet. When his trembling hands left my hair and reached my chin, I lifted my head slightly, trying to maintain my composure. My gaze wandered around the room, searching for something to focus on. If I looked directly at him, I knew the tears would come pouring out again. “Come on, let's sit and talk for a while, shall we?” He withdrew his fingers from my chin and gestured toward the edge of the bed. I bit my lip, trying to steady myself, and waited for him to sit down first. Only then did I take the seat beside him. “Your mother and I had an arranged marriage,” he began, his eyes seeming to drift into the past. “Neither of us knew the other. But with time, we grew accustomed to one another, and eventually… I fell in love with her. We told ourselves that we didn't have to love each other from the very beginning to build a life together.” His words struck a deep chord within me. I felt tears welling in my eyes, but I fought to hold them back. My gaze shifted to the family photograph hanging on the wall opposite my bed. In it, we all looked happy, as though nothing in the world could ever tear us apart. “Your mother came from a very wealthy family,” he continued, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “At first, they looked down on us because we were poor. They wouldn't even give us the time of day. But eventually, we managed to make something of ourselves, thanks to my grandfather's word. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?” I nodded, even as the tears threatened to spill over. I was doing everything I could to remain strong, but his words only made it harder. He was the one who had approved this marriage of convenience, and now he sat before me, trying to justify it all. “I lost my reason for living the day I buried your mother,” he said, his voice breaking. “I wanted to go with her, but you were still here. I had children who needed me…” He didn't need to say anything more. “Tell me, is there someone in your heart?” he asked suddenly, the words coming with difficulty. The question caught me off guard. I didn't know how to answer. If I said yes, perhaps I could escape this arranged marriage. But if I said no, I knew my fate was sealed. The wedding would take place tomorrow. He placed his hand over mine. I studied his calloused fingers, his wrinkled skin, and the silver ring he still wore—the same one my mother had left him. It was a constant reminder of her and everything we had lost. “I've always blamed myself for your mother's death,” he confessed, his voice heavy with remorse. “The burden is unbearable. And now I feel as though life is testing me with the fate of two of my children. If I allow one to die, it's as if I'm condemning the other to a life of emptiness…” His voice faded as he reached the end of the sentence. I cautiously raised my eyes and looked at him. He was staring at my mother's photograph, a silent tear rolling down his cheek. The man who had always seemed so strong now looked painfully vulnerable before me. “Come here,” he said, patting his thigh lightly, inviting me to lie down. I slipped off my slippers and, without a word, rested my head in his lap. His hands returned to my hair, gently stroking it with a tenderness that almost hurt. “I couldn't bear to go through that kind of pain again,” he whispered. “I've already buried your mother. To lose a child… no, I couldn't bear it.” My tears fell uncontrollably onto his knees. I didn't care about my pride anymore. I didn't care how vulnerable I felt. That night, I cried until I had no strength left. Hours later, I lay curled up on my bed, trying to block out the sound of drums thundering in the distance. I was wearing a wedding dress, an outfit that felt foreign to me, heavy and suffocating. A prison. “Emily, sweetheart.” My father's voice pulled me from my thoughts. He approached and sat down in front of me. I leaned against the headboard, wrapping my arms around my legs. I looked at him, searching his face for some sign of hope. The noise downstairs suddenly stopped. The drums and laughter faded away, and in the silence, all I could hear was my father's breathing. “You are my light, my solace,” he finally said, his sincerity tearing me apart. “But I couldn't bear to lose your brother after losing your mother.” I didn't realize that with his decisions, he had already condemned me.