Dear Ex-wife Marry Me

It was Yvonne's handwriting, unmistakably hers. Bernard knew it well, as they used to secretly write letters to each other.

Bernard's fingers clenched tightly around the paper, but then slowly relaxed, fearing he might crumple it.

Outside, the relentless wail of police sirens filled the air, echoing like an omen of endless chaos.

There were muffled curses from strangers, but Bernard couldn't care less. From the very first word, he began to read slowly, absorbing every line.

"Bernard, I'm so sorry, I can't have children."

"What to do? Bernard is an orphan with no family of his own, and now that he's married to me, we can't even have a child."

"My mother said that church had miracles, I prayed so long, why can't I be blessed with a child?"

"I pretended to be pregnant. I love him too much and didn't want to disappoint him. I guess I'm the one to blame, I'll raise this child as my own."

"The child is adorable, but he's not ours, not Bernard's. Now when I look at him, it hurts; I've deceived everyone—I became the woman I despise the most. The doctor says there's no miracle; I can't get pregnant, and my mind is in turmoil."

"I visit the church every week, and I haven't been home this year. The priest says I'm possessed. Now, when I see other people's kids, I want to take them home—I can always find one that resembles Bernard."

"I'm sorry, I can't take it anymore. It's all my fault. One lie led to countless others; it's too painful. I do love him, yet I'm the one who deceived him the most." Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

"I used to be kind, why did I do this? I'm sick, it's like I've lost my mind. Bernard, I'm sorry, truly sorry. The child isn't yours, I can't have kids, it's all a lie."

These are the fragmented words left by Yvonne, they can't even be considered a letter, just words she wrote in an emotional breakdown.

Bernard read it over and over, each word hammering against his skull.

His ideal of a happy family, the blissful marriage he thought he had—all a sham.

But it didn't matter to him.

All he cared about was Yvonne, why had she been so foolish?

He felt something stuck in his chest. The more he read, the more he realized Yvonne's mind had been troubled much earlier, and he was too obtuse to notice.

He even believed the rumors outside, mistakenly thinking she might have committed suicide because of that so-called first love.

He resented her, yet loved her.

This tangled feeling of love and hate was driving him insane, and indeed, he had lost his mind, quickly investing in a so-called research base.

He wanted to resurrect Yvonne, to ask her face-to-face if she truly loved him, why she had taken her own life.

How could she be so cruel?

But now, after reading her fragmented words, he felt he was being ridiculous.

Why would he doubt Yvonne's love? If she didn't love him, she wouldn't have suffered so much over their childlessness, and wouldn't have walked this tragic path.

Bernard's eyes fixed on a particular line: "What to do? Bernard is an orphan with no family of his own, and now that he's married to me, we can't even have a child."

The fear, the panic, the guilt in the sentence—it all but bled from the page.

His throat was bitter, as if he needed to vomit something out, but he had no strength left.

He couldn't vomit anything.

Everything was wrong.

Yvonne was too kind-hearted. She could cry for days over accidentally causing the death of a kitten and would insist on a proper memorial.

Because of her kindness, the deceit weighed heavier each day, torturing her psyche.

But Bernard hadn't seen it, damn him for not seeing it.

His head ached fiercely, a pain that made him feel nauseous.

He felt as if he had aged a decade, even his legs seemed to lack the strength to support him, as if he might collapse on the floor.

Lingery, who was beside him, tried to support him, but he waved her off.

"Forget it, it's wrong, all wrong."