LESS THAN A WEEK AFTER MY HUSBAND DIED, I HEARD THE HOUSEKEEPER SCREAM IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT — AND FROZE WHEN I SAW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
My name is Anna Reynolds, and I am thirty-six years old.
If someone had asked me just a month ago whether I was living a happy life, I would have answered without hesitation: yes.
I once had a marriage that many people admired.
My husband, Michael Reynolds, was a real estate investor. He was eight years older than me — calm, mature, and always made me feel safe. We had been married for ten years and had an eight-year-old son named Lucas.
Our life wasn’t extravagantly luxurious, but it was comfortable and stable. A beautiful house in the suburbs, a reliable car, savings with six digits in the bank. More importantly, I believed I had a decent, faithful husband.
Michael never raised his voice at me.
Never hit our child.
He was a family man — always home on time, always spending weekends with us.
I trusted him completely.
Until the day he died.
Michael passed away suddenly from a heart attack, right in his office. The doctors said everything happened too fast — there was nothing they could do.
I still remember the moment the hospital called.
The phone slipped from my hand. My ears rang. My vision went dark. I collapsed in the living room while Lucas sat nearby doing his homework, staring at me in confusion.
Michael’s funeral was filled with mourners. Colleagues, friends, relatives — everyone spoke of him as a good man taken too soon.
I stood beside the coffin, my hands shaking, my heart hollow.
I couldn’t even cry.
Perhaps the pain was too great.
After the funeral, the large house became unbearably cold and silent. Every night, I woke up startled, instinctively reaching for the familiar presence beside me — only to remember it was gone.
At that time, the house held only three people: me, Lucas, and Maria, our housekeeper of nearly three years.
Maria was twenty-eight, originally from Mexico, quiet and hardworking. I had never once suspected her of anything. Michael always seemed proper and respectful toward her.
At least… that’s what I believed.
On the sixth night after Michael’s death, around two in the morning, I was suddenly jolted awake by soft moaning and labored breathing.
My heart nearly stopped.
There were no men in the house — only women and a child. The sound sent chills down my spine.
I sat up, listening.
The moaning came again, clearer this time, filled with pain.
I quickly put on a coat, glanced into my son’s room — Lucas was sleeping soundly — and quietly stepped into the hallway, following the sound downstairs.
With every step, my heart pounded harder.
The sound was coming from Maria’s room.
My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob. Horrifying thoughts flashed through my mind.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
The sight before me left me frozen.
Maria was curled up on the bed, clutching her stomach with both hands, her face deathly pale, sweat soaking her clothes. She writhed in pain, letting out weak cries.
“Maria! What’s wrong?” I asked in panic.
She opened her eyes, fear filling them, her lips trembling.
“I… I can’t keep this child,” she whispered weakly.
“He’s dead… why should I give birth to his child?”
I felt the blood drain from my body.
“Who are you talking about?” I asked shakily. “What child?”
Maria squeezed her eyes shut as tears streamed down her face. Before I could ask more, her face turned even paler and her body began to convulse.
I immediately called an ambulance.
At the hospital, doctors told me Maria was suffering from severe bleeding caused by unsafe abortion medication. Fortunately, she was brought in time — the baby was still alive.
I collapsed onto a chair in the hospital hallway.
My ears rang.
My mind spun.
Hours later, when Maria had stabilized, she looked at me with fear and guilt — and told me everything.
She was nearly four months pregnant.
The father of the baby… was Michael.
It felt as if someone had struck my head with a heavy hammer.
Maria bowed her head, crying nonstop. She said Michael had approached her during times when Lucas and I were not home. At first, it was just concern and kindness — then it crossed the line.
Michael promised to support her financially. He even said he would arrange a separate place for her and the child in the future.
Maria believed him.
She thought bearing his child would secure her future.
Then Michael died suddenly.
Maria panicked. She was terrified of giving birth to a child without a father, of being judged, of being unable to raise the child alone.
In desperation, she listened to bad advice and took abortion pills on her own.
She nearly lost her life.
As I listened to Maria’s story, my heart shattered.
The devoted husband I loved and trusted for ten years… had betrayed me inside our own home.
I felt rage.
Pain.
Humiliation.
Yet when I looked at Maria — a young woman carrying a child — I couldn’t bring myself to feel only hatred.
The baby was innocent.
It was the last bloodline Michael left behind.
I told Maria I would not allow her to abandon the child.
She broke down, saying she couldn’t bear to give birth to a child without a father, that she didn’t want her child to grow up in shame.
I stayed silent for a long time.
That night, sitting alone in my car under the dark sky, I realized for the first time in my life that I was facing a decision that could change the fate of multiple lives.
What should I do?
Keep the child — born from betrayal?
Or allow an innocent life to disappear because of the sins of adults?
The answer…
Even I did not expect.
