Tired of coming home and seeing only girls, I finally had a son—but the more I looked at him, the less he resembled me. I left my family for my mistress, but when I returned, my eldest daughter said something that chilled me… I was too late.
For years, I was tired of coming home and seeing only my wife give me daughters. Three, one after the other. I, the eldest in a line of men—my father has four brothers—felt humiliated. The village whispered:
“This house must bear a heavy curse, no son to take over…”
My wife suffered in silence. During the fourth pregnancy, despite the doctor’s warnings about her fragile health, she gritted her teeth. When we learned it was a boy, I wept with joy.
But as he grew, something was wrong. His skin was very fair, his eyes narrow, his forehead arched… There was nothing of me in that. I have dark skin, deep eyes, and angular features.
Doubt gnawed at me.
One day, beside myself, I blurted out to my wife:
“Are you sure he’s mine?”
She burst into tears. My eldest daughter, 13, looked at me silently, her eyes full of sadness.
Shortly after, I ran away. I left with my mistress, a hairdresser ten years my junior. She whispered to me:
“I gave you two sons, not like that other woman…”
Blinded, I no longer thought about my daughters. Not about the tears, nor the hunger, nor about life without a father. For a week, I lived in a hotel room with my mistress, dreaming of a fresh start, of a family that reflected my image.
Until that rainy afternoon, when I came home to announce the divorce.
When I opened the door, I found my daughters sitting silently. Their eyes were red from crying. My eldest daughter approached, pointed to the room, and said coldly,
“Daddy, go see her one last time.”
I stood there frozen.
I rushed over. My wife was lying there, white as a sheet. In her hand, an unfinished letter. The little boy had been left with the neighbors. She had swallowed the sleeping pills… the same ones I had bought for my mistress.
I screamed, shook her body, begged. But it was too late.
Her last letter simply said:
“I’m sorry.” I kept our son, thinking he would love me more than you. But when you left, I realized I had lost everything. If there is another life, I would still want to be the mother of my children, even if I am no longer your wife.”
I fell to my knees, broken, my daughters’ sobs piercing my soul.
And my mistress? When she learned that my wife was dead to me, she panicked. She cut off all contact and fled into the night…
