You Called Me Barren, Mr. Sterile Don

On my birthday, my husband Dante asked for a divorce over a plate of cold lasagna.

He held my hand, tears in his eyes, and told me his mistress was pregnant.

"It’s a miracle, Elena," he wept. "God has finally given me a son."

He looked at me with pity, calling me "broken" because I hadn't given him an heir in eight years.

He moved his pregnant mistress into the penthouse I paid for, and his mother mocked me as a "dry vine" while cooking tonic soups for the new woman.

They didn't know the truth I had buried three years ago.