His family blamed me for not being able to have children until I handed them their son’s medical records
They locked me away in a tattered, rotting corner at the back of that magnificent mansion, cursing me as a useless woman, a decayed root incapable of blossoming. For three whole years, I lived like a civet cat trapped in a dark cage, enduring every lash of mockery and contempt. But the true nightmare wasn’t their cruelty; it was the chilling medical truth I had just received from the hospital: The one who could not have children, from beginning to end, was none other than the perfect husband they were worshiping.
PART 1: THE DARK ROOM IN THE GOLDEN MANSION
That mansion stood proudly in an isolated suburban area, where towering walls blocked all the benevolent light of the sun outside, letting in only a false sense of luxury. Inside were brilliant crystal chandeliers, red velvet carpets extending along the corridors, and the pompous laughter of a prestigious family.
But my world did not lie within those crystal lights. My world was the old, dilapidated storage room tucked away in the very last corner of the ground floor, right next to the waste disposal room.
That room was less than ten square meters wide. The walls were mottled with green mold spots, the ceiling leaked whenever the rainy season rolled around, leaving cold pools of water on the rough concrete floor. The only bed was a rusted iron frame, with a thin mattress exuding the musty smell of time. That had been my sanctuary for the past three years, ever since I stepped into the high-society family as a wife of unmatched, lowly background.
Three years ago, in a poor, destitute corner of the city, I was a naive girl who believed in true love. That man had come, using vows to the heavens and earth to pull me out of a peaceful yet impoverished life, leading me into a trap called “matched marriage.” But when the novelty faded, before the church bells had even cooled down, the tragedy unfolded.
The only problem arose after the first year: No baby’s cries echoed in the house.
Thus, from a wife whose name was called out at high-society tea parties, I quickly plummeted to the position of a sinner. In that family, a woman unable to bear children was considered a defective product. My mother-in-law, a sharp-tongued woman with eyes as cold as razors, never called me by my proper name. She always looked at me with contempt, hurling words sharp as bamboo stakes into my face: “You withered branch, rotten leaf, leeching off this family for three years and your belly is still as flat as a blank sheet of paper. Our family must have accumulated bad karma to welcome someone like you!”
And my husband? He stood by, hiding his impotence behind the facade of a successful, busy man. He did not defend me. He only looked at me with cold eyes, sighing heavily as if my existence was an unforgivable burden. He banished me to this tattered storage room under the excuse: “You need peace of mind and time to repent for your sin of failing to continue the bloodline.”
Every day passed like a form of torture. I was forbidden from setting foot on the main floor when VIP guests were present, ordered to do the hardest chores, and forced to endure leftover meals tossed at the door like charity thrown to an animal. I had cried my eyes dry, blamed myself for being incompetent, and bowed my head to accept all the blame, thinking the fault truly lay in the weak body of an impoverished girl like me.
Until yesterday, when a sharp cramp in my lower abdomen caused me to faint, that ruthless husband of mine casually dropped a cold remark before tossing me a few crumpled bills: “Go to the pharmacy and check yourself out; don’t let your sickness defile this house any longer.”
PART 2: THE SHOCKING TRUTH FROM THE CLINIC
I dragged my broken body to a small private clinic tucked away behind a winding alley of the city. There was no splendor there, only the familiar smell of antiseptic and the coldness of medical instruments.
The elderly doctor, a man with graying hair and sorrowful eyes, looked at me through his reading glasses after holding my lengthy medical file. He heaved a deep sigh and placed the stack of papers on the desk.
“You have no illness at all,” the doctor spoke, his voice calm yet heavy as a sledgehammer striking my head. “Your physical condition is completely normal. You are fully capable of conceiving and giving birth to children in completely healthy conditions.”
I was stunned, my limbs trembling. A suffocating feeling rose in my throat: “But… but why haven’t I been able to… for the past three years?”
The doctor did not answer immediately. He opened another file folder and pushed it toward me. It contained advanced test results, biological charts, and semen analysis indicators.
“The problem does not lie with you,” the doctor looked straight into my eyes, every word sharp as a cutting blade. “It lies with your husband. He suffers from congenital azoospermia, his vas deferens are completely blocked, and his reproductive cells are incapable of functioning. This condition has lasted for years, with zero possibility of natural conception.”
The entire world around me seemed to collapse.
Congenital infertility? Zero possibility of natural conception?
It turned out that for the past three years, I had endured the ultimate curses, been exiled to a tattered room, and treated like a sinner incapable of giving birth… all while being the victim of a grand farce orchestrated by that very perfect husband.
He knew his condition very well before marriage. He knew he could not have children. But to hide that weakness from the clan, to secure his seat of inheritance and social prestige, he had heartlessly chosen a poor, voiceless girl as his scapegoat. He pinned all the blame on me, letting his family torment and torture me day after day, while he stood safely outside the court of sympathy.
The pain and humiliation turned into a ferocious fire that burned away every ounce of weakness in me. Tears no longer fell. Instead, there was a cold energy, sharp enough to send shivers down the spine.
THE CLIMAX – THE MOMENT THE TRUTH ERUPTS
That night, the luxurious villa hosted a grand anniversary party to welcome top-tier business partners. Beneath the brilliant chandeliers, my husband’s family was laughing happily, raising glasses to toast the prosperity of the lineage.
I flung open the door of the tattered storage room, marching straight up to the main hall in my old clothes, gripping the medical report with the red hospital seal.
My mother-in-law, upon seeing me, glared fiercely and roared angrily in front of dozens of distinguished guests: “You useless woman! Who gave you permission to set foot up here? Get down to the kitchen corner immediately!”
My husband’s expression also shifted, his face draining of all color, and he rushed over intending to slap me across the face to cover up his panic.
But I did not step back. I held my head high, my sharp gaze sweeping across every stunned face in the banquet hall. I threw the medical file straight onto the banquet table in front of everyone, my cold voice echoing throughout the room:
“You want to curse me as a withered, rotting branch? Then go ask your golden son whether, for the past three years, he has actually been the one who is impotent, completely incapable of having children! He deceived this entire family and turned me into a puppet to cover up his own humiliation!”
The entire banquet hall instantly plunged into a dead silence. My husband stood frozen like stone, his limbs trembling so violently he couldn’t utter a single word…
