BLOOD TYPE O
1.
Sarah Miller once believed that if there was one thing in life that was absolutely fair, it was her marriage.
She and her husband, Jonathan Miller, got married when she was twenty-nine and he was thirty-two. Jonathan was a civil engineer working for a large corporation in Virginia, earning around $120,000 a year. Sarah worked as a freelance editor for a small publishing house—her income modest, but enough to keep her financially independent.
They lived in a quiet two-story house in suburban Alexandria, with a backyard, a garage, and a stone fireplace. Their neighbors were families much like them—middle-class, polite, mowing lawns on weekends, greeting each other with courteous smiles.
From the outside, their marriage looked almost perfect.
Except for one thing.
They had no children.
2.
In the first year, Sarah wasn’t worried. The doctor said everything was normal; they just needed patience. By the second year, she started counting cycles. By the third year, the negative pregnancy tests became a form of quiet torture.
Jonathan remained gentle. He held her when she cried in the bathroom. He told her,
“It’s okay, love. Even if we never have children, we still have each other.”
Sarah wanted to believe that.
But by the fifth year, even the strongest hearts begin to crack.
Family gatherings became ordeals. Innocent questions—“So when’s the baby coming?”—forced her to smile while swallowing tears. She avoided friends with children, hated baby photos on social media, hated her own body most of all.
She spent over $60,000 on fertility treatments: hormone injections, IUI, IVF. Each failure cut deeper than the last.
Jonathan grew quieter. He worked longer hours. Came home later. The distance between them expanded silently, without argument or noise.
3.
In the sixth year, Sarah suggested hiring a housekeeper.
“At least I won’t be so exhausted,” she said. “I don’t have the energy to keep the house anymore.”
Jonathan agreed quickly—almost with relief.
They posted an ad and met Emily Carter, a twenty-three-year-old woman from West Virginia. Emily had dark brown hair, slightly tanned skin, and a soft voice. She said she’d dropped out of college due to family hardship and needed money to support her mother and younger brother.
Sarah sensed something in Emily—something youthful, alive—something she herself had lost.
They agreed on $2,200 a month, live-in.
Emily moved in at the beginning of fall.
4.
At first, everything was normal.
Emily woke early, cooked breakfast, did the laundry, cleaned the house. She always addressed Sarah as “Mrs. Miller,” always lowered her head when speaking. Jonathan was polite and distant.
Sarah felt relieved. The house was cleaner. She had time to rest, to read, to practice yoga.
Then the small details began to surface.
Jonathan came home earlier.
Emily smiled more.
Their conversations in the kitchen lasted a little longer than necessary.
Sarah scolded herself for imagining things. She refused to become a suspicious woman simply because she couldn’t conceive.
Until one evening in December.
5.
Sarah came home early after a meeting was canceled. When she opened the door, she heard laughter from the kitchen.
Jonathan and Emily stood close together. Emily was showing him something on her phone, Jonathan leaning in. When they saw Sarah, they stepped apart instantly.
“You’re home early,” Jonathan said.
“Yeah,” Sarah replied calmly.
Emily lowered her head and left the room quickly.
Nothing was obviously wrong. But unease crept in.
6.
In the following months, Sarah felt herself being pushed to the margins of her own home.
Jonathan often ate dinner late, claiming he’d already eaten at work. Emily knew his schedule so well that she sometimes told Sarah,
“Mr. Miller will be home late tonight.”
Sarah didn’t remember telling her that.
She noticed small things:
– The scent on Jonathan’s shirt wasn’t familiar.
– The way Emily looked at him—brief, but intense.
– The silence that fell when she entered a room.
Still, Sarah had no proof. And more than that, she had no strength left to face another kind of pain.
7.
In the spring, Emily asked for a few days off, saying she felt unwell.
When she returned, she looked pale, thinner. Sarah asked after her health; Emily only smiled faintly.
Three months later, Emily asked to speak privately.
“Mrs. Miller… I’m pregnant.”
Sarah froze.
“I’ll move out. I’m sorry.”
Sarah didn’t ask who the father was. She wasn’t brave enough.
Jonathan stood nearby, his face drained of color. He said nothing.
Emily moved out within a week. Jonathan gave her $5,000 “to help her get started.”
Sarah told herself it was charity.
She was too tired to dig deeper.
8.
Emily gave birth at the end of the year.
A baby boy.
Sarah learned about it through a mutual acquaintance—the world was smaller than people thought. She heard Emily named the child Noah.
She gave it little thought until early the next year, when Jonathan mentioned that his company required a full medical exam for an overseas project.
The results arrived at home.
Sarah didn’t know why, but she opened the envelope.
She saw the line:
Blood Type: O+
Her breath caught.
Jonathan had told her he was type O.
She was type A.
A vague, terrifying thought flickered through her mind.
9.
Sarah didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, she called an old acquaintance—a nurse who had helped her during fertility treatments.
“Hypothetically,” Sarah said, forcing calm into her voice, “if a man is blood type O and a woman is type A… can they have a child with type O?”
There was a pause.
“It’s possible,” the nurse said. “But only if the mother carries the O gene.”
Sarah swallowed.
“What if the mother is type B?”
“Also possible. But… Sarah, why are you asking?”
Sarah didn’t answer.
10.
She tried every way possible to find out Emily’s blood type.
After nearly two weeks, through a contact at a private clinic where Emily had prenatal checkups, Sarah finally got the information.
Emily Carter – Blood Type: B+
Sarah sat motionless for a long time.
Jonathan was type O. Emily was type B. Their child could indeed be type O.
She looked at a photo of Noah that the acquaintance sent—a baby with slightly dark skin, brown hair, eyes eerily similar to Jonathan’s as a child.
Every piece fell into place—brutal and flawless.
11.
That night, Sarah placed the test results on the dining table.
Jonathan saw them. His face collapsed.
“I want to talk,” Sarah said, her voice unnervingly calm.
Jonathan stayed silent.
“Emily’s baby is blood type O,” Sarah continued. “I checked.”
Jonathan lowered his head. His shoulders trembled.
“I’m sorry.”
Three words.
Three words that destroyed six years of marriage.
12.
Jonathan confessed everything.
It had started on the nights Sarah was exhausted, lying in bed, turned away from the world. Emily listened to his complaints, comforted him—and crossed the line.
“I never planned it,” Jonathan said. “I was just… lonely.”
Sarah let out a hollow laugh.
“And what about me?” she asked. “Was I not lonely?”
Jonathan didn’t respond.
He admitted giving Emily another $20,000 after the baby was born, promising monthly support but keeping it hidden.
Sarah felt nauseated.
Not because of the money.
But because betrayal had been disguised as responsibility.
13.
Sarah filed for divorce two weeks later.
She didn’t demand much. Only the house—the one she had paid half for. Jonathan moved out, rented a small apartment, and began paying child support for Noah.
Emily never contacted Sarah.
But sometimes Sarah saw them from afar—Jonathan holding the baby, his face a mixture of happiness and guilt.
Sarah no longer cried.
She had cried enough in six years.
14.
One autumn morning, Sarah returned to the fertility clinic one last time to collect her records.
The doctor looked at her with quiet regret.
“Actually,” he said, “the final results showed the issue wasn’t entirely yours. Your husband had low fertility.”
Sarah laughed.
A hollow sound.
She walked out with the files in her hand, sunlight flooding the parking lot.
Life wasn’t fair.
But at least the truth had surfaced at last—cold and undeniable, like blood type O, incapable of lying.
